The Hanged Man
by 3Jane
Summary: Jin becomes one of the flowers of Kariya's garden. AR. JxY, MxF rated for squick, adult content, and violence.
1. prologue: the poisoned apple

Disclaimer: I don't own _Samurai Champloo_ or any of its affiliated characters, which belong to Manglobe/Shimoigusa Champloos.

A/N: Rather than keep writing author's notes that read like the _Webster's_ of fangirl Japanese, I'm going to set up a separate entry for vocabulary terms in my writing journal; check my author's bio page for a link.

Much love to FarStrider, beta extraordinary, and the comeek; this is as much yours as it is mine, guys. Did I mention I love you?

For LauraBryannan, 'cause she gets the why.

* * *

_**The Hanged Man**_

_Prologue: the poisoned apple_

* * *

"You want to turn mujushin kenjutsu into a band of assassins — are you asking me to walk a path of darkness?" The slim, angry figure kneeling before him was no longer a boy, and not quite yet a man; but for Enshirou Mariya, there was only one possible way to describe him.

_My son —_

"No. I am telling you there is no other way," the older man answered heavily. Those beloved dark eyes glimmered at him in the scant afternoon light of the dojo. Mariya had wondered when he would come to defy him, in the inevitable way of fathers and sons — but not now, not when the boy's life was in danger: _please, Jin_ —

Mariya began again. "Serving Kariya-dono is the same as serving the shogunate itself."

"You're splitting hairs. It would no longer be a martial art." The boy was sullen, with tears like a thunderstorm threatening behind that controlled anger. Not that he _would_ cry. The boy'd never cried, not once, not since he'd come to the dojo as a small child with milk teeth and the last traces of a toddler's plumpness in his cheeks. Even then, Jin hadn't had the eyes of a child; he'd always seen too much.

Mariya let his eyes travel over his adopted son, the thin shoulders held rigidly under the boy's white kimono. The anger was justified, he knew. Jin was nothing if not bushido's willing servant, shaped by it until he was as the katana to the warrior's hand. "We are no longer at war," he told the boy, more gently. "A peaceful land does not need teaching of the killing arts. _All_ martial arts schools are in decline."

The boy closed his eyes, swallowing; Jin knew the trickle of students leaving had swollen into a small river, letter after letter conveying the necessary regret, as the paint of the sign faded and every month the older man pored over the books to see what expenses could be cut. He knew as well as Mariya that the Mujuu teetered precariously on the edge of a knife, and now there was a way out, a way for him to restore the dojo — what Mariya knew, better than the boy, was that to keep the dojo safe was to keep Jin safe.

"I ask that you endure this, Jin," the older man said. "_Please_." The boy's eyes flickered up to his and he knew that his fear was bleeding through into his voice. Mariya ignored the uneasy prickle in his gut that told him he had no right to ask that the boy give him this, that Jin had had little enough of childhood as it was.

The boy bowed his head, as his answer came almost too quietly to be heard — "Yes. Shishou."

Mariya exhaled, closing his eyes.

_I am so sorry, Jin._


	2. I: garden

Disclaimer: I don't own _Samurai Champloo_ or any of its affiliated characters, which belong to Manglobe/Shimoigusa Champloos; neither do I make any money from this work of fanfiction.

A/N: Huge, huge thank you to FarStrider, for beta-ing par excellence.

* * *

_**The Hanged Man**_

_I. garden_

* * *

_It was a pleasure to burn._ — **Ray Bradbury, **_**Fahrenheit 451**_

* * *

Text of a letter delivered at Gojuu Hall, Mihara, the eleventh day of Uzuki, from Mujuu-Shinken Dojo, Kisarazu:

_My dear Juunosuke: _

_The winter was difficult here in the north, this past year, and it often seemed as if the snow would swallow us entirely — now, I wonder if we will ever hear the summer crickets over the sound of running water. I have heard that the cold lingers on in the south; I have been offering daily that the trees which grow in the shade of Hiroshima Castle will not be blighted by the winter wind. Perhaps it is the frailty of age that causes me to dread the way one becomes chilled to the bone, though I have seen no sign that I am soon to be gifted with any wisdom to temper it._

An old acquaintance of ours has come to me with a surprising request, to send Jin to him for study.

_I'm hesitant to send our boy away — for he is as much yours as he is mine, I think — but I can see no way around it without causing great offense. I have put the matter to Jin, who is willing to go; still, he is very young, and his experience of the world outside our gate is small. I should have sent him to you earlier, I know, but I have allowed my regard for our boy to blind me to what is best for him._

_You remember the dojo on your last visit to us, so you will understand what a surprise it was when I was approached with an offer of patronage from our potential benefactor (who, it seems, has taken up gardening once again), in return for which we would be asked only to send those boys with the most promise to meet with him. If a boy chose another path than that offered, he said, he would let him go with sadness but the best wishes for his future._

_He asked also for Jin; on that, he said, he could not compromise._

_It seemed as if he had indeed been sent by the gods, and I am ashamed to admit that I did not press him as hard as I should have. When I did ask him why he had chosen us— certainly I would have seen the Yagyu as more practical — he answered me that the short time he had spent here had taught him more than anything else he had experienced. He did not bear us any ill will, he assured me; he had come to appreciate the purity of the Mujuu during his time spent in the service of Edo, adding that he thought other schools were overrepresented in his masters' service. It seemed most reasonable then, and even today, as I dip my brush in ink, I think to myself that my fears are unfounded. Still — how I wish Master Sekiun was here, or even Ichiun-senpai, to tell me the truth of what happened then and to tell me what I should do now. _

_I am in great need of your advice, my friend. Our old acquaintance assures me that the Mujuu will bloom again, but I wonder if we will regret the harvest._

_As always, I remain_

_Your devoted friend,  
Enshirou_

* * *

Jin could still feel the answer on his tongue like an unripe persimmon, bitter and sweet at once; it tasted of adulthood, he thought.

The small garden where his shishou had taken him was quiet, and pleasant. The man he had been brought here to see was pruning the dead wood from a plant with dark glossy leaves and pale violet flowers. He and the man were alone; his master had left him with a whispered admonishment to be respectful. It was sunny and warm as he stood there, waiting awkwardly.

The man kept his eyes on his work. The sound of his shears was so familiar, and for a moment Jin was a tiny boy once more, listening to the older students in the Mujuu orchard as they worked; but the dojo already felt as if it belonged to another lifetime.

The man rose and brushed dirt from his hands. "You are Jin," he said, looking at him for a moment as if he disliked him; then the man smiled, the impression falling away. "Do you know who I am?"

"You are Kariya-dono."

The man's smile broadened. "Ah. I was you, once," he told Jin. "You've come a long way. Would you like to see the flowers of my garden?"

Jin nodded. He was as tall as Kariya, he saw as he crossed the courtyard; the man's eyes flickered over him, assessing. Kariya was a tidy, broad-faced man dressed in plain brown kimono and black hakama. He should have looked enough like a monk for a stranger hurrying past him to consider giving alms; instead, he looked as unmovable as a troop of cavalry or Hiroshima Castle.

"The garden isn't as large as what you're used to," the older man commented. "But there are hardly enough of us here to justify planting an orchard."

Surprised, Jin looked directly at him. "You know the dojo?"

Kariya raised his eyebrows. "I was a student there for a time. As a matter of fact, I knew your shishou when I was a boy, a little — he was a few years ahead, of course, so it wasn't as if he knew me well." He clasped his hands behind his back as they walked, nodding at a small tree that was growing crookedly in a wooden tub. "I'll need to replant that before it breaks the container. Is it still the same, or do the older boys now spend more time with their juniors?"

"Sometimes."

"How interesting. Your shishou knows best, certainly," the older man said. "I spent very little time with any of the other boys when I was there, older or not. My time was saved for kenjutsu." He gave a self-deprecating smile. "I'm sure that sounds foolish to you."

Jin shook his head. "No."

"Hn. In spending all my time in training, I improved to the point where I had no equal among the other boys; even on a good day, the junior masters were hard pressed to beat me. As you might expect, the other boys — " Kariya shrugged. "But you've hardly come here to listen to me talk about my difficulties. How old were you when you began your training?"

"I was five when I first went to the dojo."

"I see. And your family?"

"My parents died when I was small. Shishou is the only family I have."

"So." The older man brightened, seeing Jin's interest as they neared an unusual plant, a yellow sunburst of a flower balanced atop a rough green stalk. "You've noticed my sunflower."

"Sunflower?" The boy looked at the flower, dark eyes alert. "What is it?"

Kariya smiled. "You've never seen one before?" he asked, as Jin shook his head. "I suppose not — your shishou has different interests. It was brought here by foreign priests from the other side of the world. During the day, when the flower blooms, its face follows the sun; at night, the flower turns its face to the sunrise, waiting for the sun to appear again. The priests used it in their teaching. What do you think it means?"

Jin frowned slightly. "Loyalty to one's lord." His fingers curled into his palms.

The older man inclined his head. "But?" he asked. "If you've been taught that questions are ill-mannered, you should forget that now and ask as many as you like. Otherwise, I'll never know what you think."

The boy's dark eyebrows drew together. "What if the lord isn't worthy of that loyalty?"

Kariya nodded, turning away from the sunflower. "Very few of them are." He walked away toward a stand of small trees in containers, Jin following after a moment. "It may have been different when the country was at war — battles were fought for simpler things. If a neighbor wanted the part of a lord's territory that touched on the sea, he took it; if the lord wanted it back, he went to war with his neighbor. Whether a man was an enemy or a friend was a very clear thing.

"Nothing is as simple as it seems, these days. Ronin are everywhere, available to anyone willing to pay them for their loyalty. The question of whether a lord is worthy of loyalty makes it seem as if one is either worthy or one is not; what you should ask is whether _this_ lord is more worthy of your loyalty than _that_ lord. To see it as anything more than an arrangement — " Kariya stopped in front of the saplings. " — the Mujuu makes much of worthiness and loyalty, which are fine qualities for the dojo. But the world does intrude, doesn't it?"

"If that's true, then what use is the sword? If it's nothing," Jin asked, "why don't lords come to arrangements among themselves? We wouldn't be needed."

The older man chuckled. "And what would that serve? Let me tell you this: there are more reasons to serve a particular lord than whether he is worthy of your loyalty. You'll learn what they are. Over time," he added, beaming at Jin. "I can see you are loyal to your shishou, which is only right. He's been very loyal to you, hasn't he?"

The boy nodded.

"Of course he has. He's a good man." The broad smile slipped a moment as Jin watched. "I can imagine he's a good teacher as well. He was a good student — one of those people who are loyal, certainly. Master Sekiun was always very fond of him; he was less fond of me, but . . ."

"Why?" Jin looked at the ground. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

Kariya raised his eyebrows. "No," he said, regret coloring his voice. "Master Sekiun acted correctly. If anything, the fault was mine. The time I spent in practice became a distraction to the other students. I was sent to another dojo, for a time." He sighed. "I wish he would have allowed me to stay at the Mujuu; I learned new techniques at the other dojo, but nothing compared to what I would have been taught. It's still one of the things I regret most. I understand now, but even so — "

"But wasn't it for your benefit that you went to the other dojo?"

"Hn. I suppose so, yes," the man said. "I was grateful. And Master Sekiun was kind; he could have lied to me and told me he was sending me for my own good, but he was honest. He told me it would be best for everyone if I went elsewhere for a little while."

"What happened then?"

"Oh, I learned what I could, and the master sent me on to walk my path." Kariya reached out to where a spider had strung a web between two young trees, the filaments a bright silver-white in the sun; he carefully tore the web free of the branches and lowered the web to the ground, where the spider scuttled off between the pots. "Master Sekiun released me from the Mujuu almost immediately after — we couldn't agree on some matters — and I went into service with a lord from the south for a few years, before taking a position in the shogun's guards."

The boy nodded, his face unreadable.

"This would have been about the time you were born," the man said. "Ancient history, almost Kamakura days. And I would not change any of it. Our duty is to everyone, to keep peace in the land. What lord could offer you more than that?" The serene smile returned to Kariya's face.

Jin tucked his hands into his sleeves, his elbows sharp angles under the cloth. "Kariya-dono — "

"Yes?"

"I have heard — " Jin paused, clearly thinking how to phrase his next words. "I have heard the shogun's guard called no better than a band of assassins. Is that true?"

Kariya laughed. "Is that what you've heard? Then I imagine you'll be disappointed to hear that I haven't drawn my sword for anything other than practice in fifteen years. Are you sure it was the shogun's guard?" he asked. "Perhaps it was the Iga . . . not that it matters, really. What is it that you object to?"

Jin was silent.

"I see." The older man bent, taking up some of the soil from one of the pots between his fingers; he crumbled it back around the roots and grunted with satisfaction. "Tell me, when you train, what do you use?"

"A shinai."

"And you are samurai?"

The boy looked affronted. "Of _course_."

"And someday you will carry a daisho, instead of your shinai?"

"Yes, but — "

"What do you think your sword is for?" Kariya asked softly. "If you are unprepared to use it, then give it up. Become a monk." He straightened. "The truth is, there is nothing for us but the sword — for you, and I, and your shishou alike. The only difference between he and I is in how we see the world; he sees the world as an extension of the dojo. It's not.

"The world is a _garden_."

Jin looked at the older man, all his attention fixed on Kariya.

"And like every garden, it needs gardeners to take care of it." Kariya passed his hand behind the delicate leaf of a tiny maple tree, its bright verdant edges jagged against his palm. "It is very important to care for it properly. Given the right attention, a garden can become a work of art: a poem, a painting, a small heaven. Do you see?"

"Yes," the boy said, eyes thoughtful.

"Good." Kariya allowed his hand to fall to his side. "It is often difficult to care for a garden in the way that it needs. It is the gardener's duty to watch over it and keep it from harm. Do you know how to keep weeds out of the garden?"

Jin was silent; he had often worked in the gardens of the dojo, but knew that this was not what the older man was asking.

"Weeds rob the flowers of the water and nutrients they need, causing them to wither and die. If the weeds are uprooted, however, the flowers that are growing alongside the weeds are disturbed and will not survive."

"What do you do?" Jin asked, curious.

"You should plant flowers that will use the weeds as their nourishment." Kariya reached out to stroke the leaves of a small tree with a rough-skinned finger, before turning to the younger man with a look of satisfaction. "We'll talk more of this, soon, but for now, I would see your shishou. Will you find him for me?"

* * *

At the first footstep on the engawa, Mariya rose from the mat where he had been waiting, not in meditation so much as in dread: though whether it was dread that Kariya would find Jin unacceptable, or dread that he would _not_, he did not know. His heart was in his throat as he recognized the sound —

— a moment before Jin stepped into the room, ducking a little to avoid the low lintel.

"Jin."

"He would like to talk to you, shishou." The boy was as he had last seen him (and why wouldn't he be, Mariya asked himself wryly, the shogun's man knew how valuable the boy was), and the relief was so strong that he wasn't sure whether he wanted to embrace Jin or shake him until his teeth rattled for frightening him.

Instead, he allowed himself to smile at the boy. "Thank you, Jin. Stay here, please; I would prefer to see him alone."

Kariya did not bother to turn to face him, or even to look up from his work on a small pine as Mariya approached.

As he walked closer, Mariya looked at the place where Kariya had chosen to meet. It was clearly not a home, the well-kept garden notwithstanding; the building was clean, but smelled of dust and tatami that had been kept too long in storage. It was in stark contrast to the Mujuu's cheerful shabbiness, like an arrow painted in vermilion ink as to why he was here in the first place.

Kariya's rudeness reminded him of _how_ it was that he was here.

Mariya spoke first, before the silence in the garden could become any louder. "Well?"

"You do me a great honor, in coming to see me," Kariya said, a sly smile in his voice. "The master of the Mujuu, and his best student."  
"You tested him, then."

"He has . . . considerable skill," Kariya admitted grudgingly, as he turned to face the Mujushin headmaster. "You've taught him well. He'll surpass you soon."

Mariya nodded.

"Does he have swords of his own?"

"I've kept his father's, until he was old enough," Mariya said. "But I thought to give him mine, someday."

"Have him bring his father's swords. Nothing else." Kariya picked up a pair of shears lying next to his foot in a gesture of dismissal. "I expect him back here within the week."

"You're ordering me to give you my pupil? Now?" Mariya controlled himself, keeping his hands loose at his sides instead of giving in to the impulse to take the katana from its sheath at his hip. This was sooner than he'd thought, too soon, it wasn't enough time, he needed to be able to ensure that Jin would be safe: "I intend to pass on the dojo to him, I can't — " He stopped, as the other man paused in his work.

"You can't?" The man's voice was amused. "You already have."

"What do you want with him? You can't have a use for the Mujuu, not for what you do. You'd be better off with one of the Iga. They'd be falling over themselves to give you as many of their sons as you wanted."

Kariya rose to his feet in a single fluid motion. "Careful. This shogun may not be old enough to remember hunting tigers in Kai, but his family has a long memory," he said, snipping at an out-of-place branch. "Not that your boy looks much like a Takeda to me — more like a Suwa, with that face. Pretty thing, isn't he?"

"Women's tricks?" Mariya said. "You can't want him for yourself, that would mean you wanted something other than — how did you put it? 'Planning for the future'." He passed his hand over his chin, feeling the scrape of stubble against the skin of his palm; he wondered how it long it had been since he was last able to shave himself as clean-faced as Jin. Slack skin and wrinkles where there used to be firm flesh — for a master of the sword, he'd either lived too long or not long enough, he decided wryly.

"He's safe enough from me, that way." The other man deftly caught the branch as it fell, adding it to a small pile of brush. "I have no interest in that."

"Then what do you want?"

"Be reasonable." There was a rustle of leaves in the canopy over their heads, as a crow alighted on a low branch. "You're complaining that your boy will have a place of honor in serving Edo, and that your dojo will thrive. He could even take my place, someday, which I'm sure will fail to please you." Kariya took a piece of soft paper from the breast of his kimono and carefully wiped the blades of the shears.

Mariya closed his eyes. "Give me a month," he heard himself say. "He'll train with me, during that time — katana, naginata, whatever you please."

"Within the week," Kariya repeated. "You're trying to bargain for something that doesn't belong to you any more. Don't waste my time."

"The Mujuu will be worthless without him. There's no one else who could be its master, after me."

"Then I have no time to lose, do I?"

* * *

The time spent preparing for the journey flew by, the second time.

Jin was traveling with a group of merchants instead of with Mariya, the goodbye hanging awkwardly in the air as the merchants waited patiently for the boy to join them. For a moment, Mariya allowed his hand to rest on Jin's shoulder, under the pretext of wiping off a faint smudge of blue dye on the boy's neck from his new kimono; Mariya found a piece of soft, crumpled paper inside his own and scrubbed at the mark as Jin submitted patiently.

It was _ridiculous_, Mariya thought to himself, the boy's broad shoulder underneath his fingertips. It could not have been more than two or three summers ago that Jin had still been small enough that a scraped knee could be made better by taking the boy into his lap. This boy (man, he reminded himself) was big enough for Mariya to sit in _his_ lap and confess his sins, expecting to have everything made right.

. . . which, in a way, he decided, he really was doing.

Mariya let his hand fall back to his side, still clutching the paper.

"Have you eaten?" the older man asked him, for the third time that morning.

Jin nodded, again.

"Remember what I've taught you," Mariya told him, his voice steady against the backdrop of chatter from the lessons going on. The Mujuu was flourishing; the outflow of students had already stopped, the polite letters of regret (_most sorry cannot_) replaced by a steady stream of messages from fathers (_please earliest return possible_) eager to ingratiate themselves and their sons with a school that wore Edo's favor like a coat of greasepaint on an actor, however that knowledge had come to be out. Kariya, he supposed.

"No, shishou." Jin was breathing from his chest, to Mariya's eye the only indication that the boy felt anything; a wave of guilt swept through the older man once more.

"And never forget. The Mujuu will always be your home."

"I won't, shishou."

Mariya opened his mouth to speak — _don't go don't we'll find a way there has to_ — then hesitated, knowing that there wasn't. He reached instead into his kimono, bringing out a pair of eyeglasses which he gave to the boy. "Be careful," he said slowly. "Think about what you see."

Jin smiled, his breathing easing a little with the distraction, and took the glasses. "Are you sure you don't want to keep these, shishou? I think they might be more useful to you than me."

"No." The older man's mouth narrowed. "You should wear them."  
Jin unfolded them and put them on, sliding them into place with a long forefinger. He gave Mariya a questioning look, wrinkling his nose at the strange weight, as his hand went back to rest on the spotless daisho at his hip.

Mariya sighed. "They're waiting for you."

Jin looked back only once as the merchants made their way ahead of him down the path, Mariya watching after; the boy's face — _man_'s face, the older man reminded himself, Jin deserved that much — was still faintly puzzled. Then the party was swallowed by the leafy silence of the trees, and Jin was gone.

A flutter of cloth caught his eye as he turned back, toward the dojo.

Mariya stopped, glimpsing dark hair swinging over a green-clad shoulder, and a downturned mouth in a pale face. It took him a moment to put a name to the face: the Hojo boy — Yukimaru, he thought. He made a note to ask Yakobei later to make discreet enquiries of the nanadan if they knew why the boy would have been watching, before the prickling behind his eyelids threatened to unman him completely.

He closed his eyes, forgetting the Hojo boy entirely as he offered a silent prayer to whatever gods were listening; _please, please, keep my son safe._

* * *

The daisho was an awkward weight at his side, as the gate swung open. He rested his hand on the hilt of the katana, the blue silk of the bindings smooth under his fingertips; it seemed strange just to walk in, after everything surrounding the decision of whether he would come here or not.

The building — it was difficult not thinking of it as another dojo, even though there had been no sign of other students, or really of anyone other than Kariya himself — was quiet, with only the chatter of birds to make it seem anything more real than a reflection in water. The pale, neatly raked gravel of the courtyard crunched underfoot as he crossed. Mortified, he wondered if there had been a mistake, with Kariya waiting for him at some entirely different place.

It was a surprise, then, when he heard a girl's voice greet him: "You must be Jin."

The voice came from just inside the building. His eyes adjusted to the dim interior, seeing a slender figure with a fringe of hair framing a face that she turned up toward him. "I am," he said.

She smiled, rising to her feet. "I've given you a room in the back — it has a window that looks out at a maple tree that I like," she said, cheerfully. "It doesn't get the morning sun, but you won't be there that much in the morning, anyway; you'll be out doing drills until your arms fall off."

"Ah." He smiled back: was she a daughter? He wondered if she was a servant for a moment, but abandoned that thought, deciding a servant would not be that self-possessed.

"I'm Sara," she told him, leading him down a familiar hall toward the garden. "Kariya-dono prefers his tea in the garden. Will you join him?"

"Yes. If it's not too much trouble," he said, looking around surreptitiously for somewhere to put the daisho — unless Kariya wanted to see that he had it? — before glancing at her for a cue.

She chuckled. "May I take your daisho?"

He handed it over with some reluctance, letting his fingers slip over the hard smoothness of the scabbard, still warm from him; his swords, now. She took them gently, handling them with great care as she set them on a stand just under a set even more plain than his, close to a wooden staff. He looked back longingly only once — would they be safe there? — as she led him into a part of the building he had not seen before, into what looked like the rooms where people lived.

Kariya was there already, sitting and watching the steam curl off the surface of a cup of tea; he looked up as Sara slid the door open. "Ah," he said, as if Jin was returning from another room, rather than a journey from the dojo of two days. "Almost a week. You must have traveled quickly. Will you have tea?"

Jin nodded slowly, trying to read the other man, as he sat down across from him.

Sara was already warming the cup in preparation for pouring. "Jin, perhaps tomorrow you will let Kariya-dono have a look at your swords," she said. She smiled faintly as the liquid made a graceful arc from the teapot to the cup, her eyes fixed on some faraway point; Kariya grunted softly in acknowledgment as she handed him his teacup.

"Oh?" Kariya asked. "How will I know them from the others?"

"Masamune," she said. "The tsuka-ito is blue."

"Are you sure?"

"It _feels_ blue," she said, smiling. "If you'll forgive me, Kariya-dono, I have some more work to do. Jin." She bowed her head as she left the room.

Kariya's eyes were sardonic as he watched Jin staring after the woman.

"She's _blind_?" Jin asked. "How — " His words stumbled to a halt as he looked, bewildered, at the man.

"It isn't her eyes that see the cup." Kariya sipped his tea with evident enjoyment. "She's very skilled on the shamisen, as well. Perhaps some day you'll hear her play."

"But how — "

" — did she know where the cup was?" Kariya finished for him. "By all means, ask if you want to know. She might tell you, or she might not. It's nothing you need to concern yourself with, however."

Jin swallowed the question of whether there were others like her, and fell silent, thinking.

"You, on the other hand," Kariya said, and smiled. "I think I'm going to find what you see to be very interesting. Sometimes it is useful to be able to see the garden for what it is."

The tea left a sour taste in Jin's mouth. "Will I be studying with you?"

The man shook his head. "No. Mariya told me you would have taken the examination to become a junior master in the coming year: I doubt a dojo will be of much use to you, any more," he remarked casually. "Your lessons will be different, certainly — " Kariya looked up, as the woman slid the door quietly open and crossed to where they sat. She gave Jin a polite nod, bending to murmur into the older man's ear before standing again.

Kariya set his cup on the tray. "I'll have to cut our time short, this evening. Pity — I was looking forward to hearing about the Mujuu." He turned to Sara. "Would you take Jin to his room, please, and make him comfortable?"

"I would be very happy to," she said.

"Good. Tell me, where did I leave my shears?" he asked.

"Next to the tokonoma," she said, tranquilly. "I saw them, just now. I thought you would prefer that I leave them there for you."

"Ah. Very good." Kariya turned to Jin, as the young man got to his feet. "I'm sure you're tired. We'll take this up again in the morning."

* * *

The conversation within went quiet, as Kariya slid back the fusuma; Sara had already served the two men inside with tea and wafers, he saw. "Counselor," he said, bowing his head. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"This isn't a social visit." The shogun's counselor was a squat, pug-faced man, one of the lesser Kuroda who had chosen Edo over the foreign god; his aide sat unobtrusively back, his eyes on the mat in front of him, waiting. "We've found her."

"Ah." Kariya's eyebrows lifted. "The girl."

Kuroda grunted. "The situation has become more complicated. There was an incident involving the son of the governor, and a criminal from the south who killed the governor himself — " He passed a thick-fingered hand over his shaven head. "Pirate, if the reports are correct, though how he'd have made it to Edo is beyond me. The criminal was already wanted for questioning in the death of our lord's uncle, but escaped when the girl created a diversion."

"Diversion?"

"She threw lighted fireworks into a crowd," Kuroda rasped. "She and the criminal got away when the crowd panicked."

"I see." Kariya's eyes glinted in the dim evening light. "How _very_ vulgar."

"She was overheard asking about a samurai who smelled like sunflowers."

"Sunflowers. Well," Kariya said easily. "That does complicate things, doesn't it?"

The shogun's counselor gave him a sour look.

"He disappeared eight or nine years ago. It's hardly surprising that she can only describe him as smelling like sunflowers; she was very young." Kariya frowned. "Still, it's inconvenient. Mariya Enshirou's boy's only arrived today; I'll need more time with him before he'll be of any use."

"The Thousand Man Killer?" Interest flickered across Kuroda's face. "Congratulations. Edo will be pleased," he said. "If you weren't already, you'd be made captain of the guard."

"The counselor is much too kind." Kariya's eyebrows drew together. "The girl, however."

"Hm. Find her, and report back to me."

"And the criminal?"

"If he's still with the girl when she's found, leave them alone. If he's not — " Kuroda shrugged. "Unfortunate, but forget about him; she's more important than he is." Kuroda rose with an effort, the aide a noiseless shadow behind him.

"Ah," Kariya said. "This is hardly a place for someone of your stature, certainly, but we would be pleased to offer you a place to stay this evening — Sara's improved on the shamisen since you were here last, she'd enjoy playing for you."

Kuroda shook his head, a crooked smile on his face. "No, one of the local han is eager to make a friend of me — he's been unwise enough to mention he's had shochu brought in from Ryukyu," he said. " I've tasted the horse piss you call sake, Kariya."

Kariya chuckled, accompanying the heavy man and his shadow to the courtyard, where a palanquin was surrounded by men. "What does a gardener know about sake?"

The counselor made a short, sharp noise of amusement as he climbed into the palanquin. "In that case, you should know shit when you see it," Kuroda said, his smile broadening at his own joke. "Keep me informed regarding the girl — and on your progress with Mariya's boy."

"Within the day, counselor," Kariya promised.

He watched as Kuroda's palanquin was carried off, waiting until it disappeared from sight before he went inside. Sara's voice was audible from the hallway; for a moment, he stood and listened as she chatted to the boy, something about traveling through Hyuga.

She backed out of the room, a pillow in her hands as she slid the door shut behind her. He motioned that he'd follow her to the storage room where the bedding was kept, as she nodded; he stood and listened a moment to the sound of Jin moving around inside the room (walking quietly, he noted; that was very good) until he heard the sound of cloth rustling as the boy got into the futon Sara had made up for him.

She had lit the lantern in the storage room, and stood bathed in its warm yellow glow, examining pillows critically as he slid the door closed behind him. "He's never been anywhere," she said, keeping her voice quiet. "Hiroshima, Kisarazu, and now here, just imagine."

He sat. "Yes. Gojuu Hall." A thought struck him; he filed Gojuu Hall and the Niwas away, to be thought about later. "What do you think?"

She shrugged, letting a cushion fall to her feet. "I think tomorrow I should speak with the laundress — these aren't as clean as they could be. About him? I think he'll have a long day tomorrow." A smile touched her lips. "He's going to think he might hurt me."

He chuckled. "Yes."

"Hm." She shook her head, still smiling.

"Kuroda had something interesting to say — Seizo's daughter has gone looking for him. With, unbelievably, some criminal in tow."

Sara raised her eyebrows. "The Kasumi girl? She was in Yokohama, if I remember correctly — I'll send to Shibui to have him find her," she said. "Even he should be able to do that."

"Shibui's dead." Kariya clicked his tongue in annoyance. "He was a grubby little man, who'll be replaced by another grubby little man — it's tedious. It'll mean finding someone else in his household, until the new governor is installed," he said. "For the time being, there was a man named Ryujiro: have him find the girl and report back."

She nodded. "Do we offer him payment?"

"He knows enough not to ask," he told her. "_Just_ enough."

"I see." She made no move to go, her face thoughtful.

Kariya sat back, waiting. "What is it?"

Sara was quiet for a long moment, then: "The boy," she said at last. "He's so _young_."

"Older than you when you first came here," he said and got to his feet. "He learned from Mariya himself. It won't be a problem."

"It's not that." She turned her face toward him, her mouth folded into a worried line. "It'll be a year, soon. Do you think — "

"Sara." Kariya frowned. "Now is not the time for distractions."

"He should be walking now." She pressed her hands against her abdomen. "He was so _strong._ When I touched his palm with my finger, he held on so tightly, like he knew what we were going to do — "

"I remember," he said, his voice softening. "You know it's not possible. As it is, I wish — he's as safe as I can keep him. If he was here, you know they'd come for him. This way, in a few years' time — there's a chance things will be different."

She nodded. "I know. But I can't stop thinking."

Kariya reached out and took one of her hands. "He's with a good family, an innkeeper and his wife. He'll never want for anything — he'll even have a trade, when he grows up," he told her. "A good one. Would you want him to have this life?"

She shook her head, her dark hair gleaming in the sunset light that filtered through the window.

"Well, then." He released her hand and drew his fingertips along the line of her jaw. "It doesn't make it easier, I know. I miss him, too," he confessed.

Sara gave him a penitent smile. "I should be stronger. You're right — I'm sorry."

"Ah." He nodded. "It's nothing."

"I'll send to Ryujiro tonight."

"Don't be long." Kariya bent, kissing the corner of her mouth before he left the room.

His footsteps were a whisper along the mats that lined the hallway. The light was out in the room where Jin was sleeping, he noted automatically as he passed. Good: the more time the boy had to think, the better.

The kitchen was dark. He walked past the unlit lantern, to the basin Sara kept filled — she preferred not having to walk outside in the middle of the night if she wanted water, she said — where he sluiced water over his hands and washed his face, scrubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand.


	3. II: in eden

Disclaimer: I don't own _Samurai Champloo_ or any of its affiliated characters, which belong to Manglobe/Shimoigusa Champloos; neither do I profit from this work of fanfiction. Nor do I own the Zen koan, 'The Tea Master & the Assassin', which more properly is credited to _The Collection of Stone and Sand _of Muju.

A/N: Bad languages, violence, usual _Champloo_ stuff in this chapter.

Much love for FarStrider, without whose superbeta skills this chapter would have been incredibly sucktastic.

* * *

_**The Hanged Man**_

_II. in eden_

* * *

_Expect poison from the standing water._

— **William Blake, **_**Proverbs of Hell**_

* * *

Mugen scratched himself leisurely, enjoying the feel of the sun. It probably wasn't a good idea to stay in the area much longer, not after the thing at the teahouse in Edo, but the warmth had almost cleared away the last memory of the dank little cell they'd held him in. His mouth curved upward, remembering the Yagyu masters and the fight they'd put up — now _that_ had been worth it.

One good thing about this country, a man didn't want for entertainment if he knew how to look; too bad that was apparently the sort of thing that apparently gave bossy girls ideas.

_Which_ reminded him. "Yeah," he said, stretching. "The smelly dude. Good luck with that."

"What?" She glared at him, the imperious effect spoiled slightly by the fact he had to look down to see it. "I broke you out of jail! And you burned down my home!"

He readjusted himself. "What, the teahouse? Thought you were working there — "

"I lived upstairs!"

"— huh." Mugen considered this briefly, before returning to safer ground. "Anyway, you stiffed me a hundred dumplings, you dumb broad. What makes you think I'd help you after that?"

The girl's arm swept back, as she pointed in the direction of Yokohama. "I set fire to my town to keep you from being executed," she snapped. "I _can't_ go back. Do you know what they do to arsonists?"

"Just go find another town," he advised her, not unkindly. "You'll be all right."

"No." She folded her arms over her chest. "I saved your life. You _owe_ me."

"I don't owe you shit! I saved _your _life."

"Nuh-uh."

He glowered at her: obviously, he was right — and what was her problem, anyway? There was no way in hell he was going to listen to some scrawny little girl no bigger than a two monme cup of sake, and why was he even bothering to argue with her — "Still not helping you."

The girl made a _hmph_ sound, pursing her mouth. "Look," she said, fumbling a coin out of her sleeve. "I'll make you a deal."

He gave the coin a scornful look. "Ain't nearly enough. That's what, five dumplings?"

She ignored him. "Heads, you help me. Tails, I do it myself."

"How about heads, you go away, and tails, you're on your own?"

She shook her head, looking worryingly capable of following him to the next town and bitching the whole way.

He eyed the coin as he came to a decision. "Fine," he said. "But I'm flipping it."

"Be my guest." She held it out to him. The coin felt like any of the other old mainland coins when he took it, the same square hole punched in the middle; he rolled it in his fingers, not feeling the difference in weight that he would have expected if it was a dummy coin. He felt like an idiot for even thinking of it. What were the odds that she was smart enough to know how to rig a coin toss?

_Fine_. And even if it did come down heads, he'd just wait until the time was right, and ditch her — Mugen threw the coin high into the air.

They watched.

"Could you maybe have thrown it higher?"

"Shut up."

"Because that was _my_ money, and I want it back."

"What, do you think it's going to stay up there?"

"If it gets stuck in a tree or something, you are _so_ helping me — "

"Do you _ever_ stop talking?"

"I think it's coming down."

He bit off the retort that was lurking behind his teeth, because it was: a faint glimmer of dull yellow, tumbling over itself as it fell —

She yelped, as the coin struck her in the center of her forehead. "_Ow_!" Her eyes crossed, trying to look up at it, as she pulled the coin away. "Oh. Oh! Hey!" She rubbed her head, grinning as she held it out for him to see.

Mugen indulged himself in the vilest, most descriptive curse he knew in the language of his birth.

(Twice.)

* * *

At the edge of the garden, there was the rustle of branches; startled, Jin glanced over to see a squirrel disappear into the spiky leaves of a maple and chided himself for his jumpiness.

Everything was still so _unfamiliar_ here.

He hadn't expected that. Even Gojuu, as far away from the dojo as it was, had taken on the color of home, after while — there had been the same sense of a day measured out by the timekeeper, life split into an orderly progression of lessons and meals and drills and sleep — Gojuu had even smelled much the same as the place he thought of as home, though threaded through with the sharp scent of the pines that grew in the courtyard instead of the camphor trees that shaded the Mujuu; he'd realized the two were the same place at heart within his first week there.

Here, though — he stuffed that thought (and the sick ache that flowed up through his chest when it refused to go away) back down and concentrated on the weight of the sword in his hands. _That_, at least, was a comfort.

"Whenever you're ready." The woman held a walking staff lightly, fingers curled around the wood. It had to be a weapon; there was nothing else he saw that she could mean to use. Unless she had something else hidden? He frowned. Shishou had mentioned it in passing, a clan to the south who specialized in assassinations and unseen warfare, but what he'd said had made Jin's skin crawl. It was impossible that his shishou would have agreed to send him to a place where those were used: as likely as Yukimaru appearing that moment at the garden's edge.

_Or as likely that Shishou would send you away, troublemaker_. He took a breath and schooled his rebellious mind. He needed to concentrate.

"You're sure?" A guilty pang stole through him as he looked at her. It seemed shameful, somehow, to see her when she could not see him, as if he was a boy peeking into the women's bathhouse. "Perhaps the bo — "

Sara looked at him serenely then, and he remembered her pouring the tea. "We'll start with your sword," she said, then cocked her head a little to the side. "Unless you feel more comfortable using something else?"

"No," he said.

She nodded, bringing the long stick up in a half-circle as three shining blades bloomed from the end with a soft click.

A kamayari, then. It was a good choice for a woman; the longer weapon would keep him further away where he'd be unable to use his greater weight and height to his advantage. _Of_ _course, the real advantage would be in controlling the field_, his mind supplied as he surveyed the garden for rises and dips in the ground that could cause a stumble. _Wear her out, but keep her from hurting herself. _

He let out a controlled breath, the knowledge of what was about to happen and the _rightness_ of the katana in his palm a rolling tide under his skin; she drew back, and lunged forward.

He bobbed to his left, the sharp blade missing him by a fraction, and then to the right as she struck at him again. She was unbelievably fast; it was like a spar with Niwa-sensei, no time to think, no time to do anything but react —

— he blocked, the silver knell of metal against metal ringing through the garden.

"So." The tranquility was gone, her face intent. "You're skilled enough to have come from the Mujuu." She shifted her weight then, pressing forward, as he braced himself against the ground; he could feel the strain in his shoulders, the dull edge of the katana biting into his palm as he shoved back. "I suppose, the question is whether they'd want you back."

Jin inhaled sharply, the movement of pushing off against the kamayari happening almost before he was aware he was doing it, and this time it was her turn to dodge as the katana described a line that would have taken her head off, had she been a heartbeat slower. He sliced down as she curved away; he let the momentum carry the blade in an arc over, meaning to force her back —

— and she was _there_, close enough for him to feel her breath on his face.

He jerked backwards in surprise. She thrust the kamayari up, and out — there was the bright glint of sunlight off the edge, and as he twisted sideways to avoid the strike he realized she had maneuvered him so that he was fighting facing the sun. A grim humor filled him; did she really think he had never learned how to manage those little advantages?

_Move, move, move_: if her movement was forward, then his needed to be —

— _backward_. He pivoted on his foot, expecting the force with which she was pressing forward to carry her a step or two away —

— and she spun _with_ him, breaking away only when he brought the katana up between them.

Breathing harder, he fell back into a half-crouch. _What is this?_ _She's not, she can't — _

"I don't need eyes to see," Sara said, causing the fine hair on his arms to prickle, as she gripped the kamayari.

"Who _are_ you?"

She whirled in a tight circle, the weapon held low; before he could react, the tip of the center blade raked over his leg, slicing through the cloth of his hakama and gouging a shallow furrow in his calf. He stifled a gasp, but she pulled back, cradling the kamayari in the crook of her elbow.

"You were distracted," she told him. "If this hadn't been for practice, you would have had a difficult time. Do you need to stop?"

He shook his head.

"Then — again."

* * *

The door slid closed behind Jin, the cloth of his hakama rustling quietly, with his question still as present in the garden as if he had taken brush to paper.

Not that she would, any more — Sara snorted, amused that she'd forgotten. How many years had it been, since she was blinded? It was foolish to think this much about a ridiculous question like that, from a boy who could probably still feel the planks of a dojo floor underneath his feet. Although — more fool herself, to call_ him_ distracted when she went into a sparring session with the ashes of that message from Edo still cooling in the kitchen grate.

She flexed her hands, listening to the joints cracking; for a short moment, the sound of the gravel as it was crunched underfoot blended with the noise of her knuckles popping.

"How did it go this morning?"

Even if she hadn't known he'd been watching, his tone would have been enough to tell her he was hardly asking her for an assessment of Jin's skill with the sword. "It's difficult," she said, massaging her aching hands. "He took your bait. How did you manage? An hour of that and I feel like I've been trampled by a herd of horses."

"It goes away eventually. They improve," he answered. "Or they die. He'll know what he needs to before the rains begin."

"That's less than a month."

"Mm."

"That's impossible."

"I assure you, it is possible."

"It took me nearly a year, and I did nothing _but_ train," she objected; he had a better knowledge of that school than she did, but still — "Has he ever even used a sword outside of the dojo? If I had six or seven months, then maybe. _Maybe_." She grasped the kamayari, her hands gone clammy on the wooden shaft.

He raised a neat eyebrow. "You doubt him?"

"It can't be done."

"Ah." Kariya folded his hands into his sleeves. "Come at me."

" — what?" she asked, the question slipping out even though she knew it would go unanswered.

He stood quietly, waiting.

The handle of the kamayari rolled in her hand as she brought it around, and up — he stepped back out of reach of the blade, the edge passing harmlessly through the air where he had been; Sara let the momentum pull her away, moving into a defensive crouch with her weapon held in front of her.

The guard made a _snick!_ sound as he drew the sword free of the scabbard.

She jerked to the side, but not before the edge sheared through a lock of hair that had come loose; there was a cool breeze against her throat, the shorn ends falling softly against her skin.

"Slow," he said, in the same tone he'd used when she'd first told him she was pregnant, an _oh yes?_ sort of voice.

"Tired," she corrected, stabbing at his midsection.

He sidestepped as he moved toward her, katana held loosely in his hand.

Sara shifted back and forth, unwilling to give him a stationary target. She'd never be able to force his hand, but there was no reason to present him with temptation — "I thought we were fighting," she said.

"Hm."

She whirled the kamayari around, her lungs burning as she spun in a tight circle, the blades at the end of the staff a gleaming streak on the air impossible to dodge, she had him at last —

— he turned with her, bringing the katana up in a smooth motion to rest against her throat.

The blade at her throat pricked uncomfortably at her skin. She lifted her head higher to keep the edge from drawing blood, the tendons in her neck complaining. His breathing was even, unhurried as they stood there in the long moment; somewhere overhead, she could hear a jay crying out in a harsh voice.

The moment dragged on, and she became conscious of an emotion she had never thought she'd feel in this position: impatience. It was becoming ridiculous —

"Still tired?"

"A little." Careful not to let the weight of the kamayari unbalance her, she lifted herself up on tiptoe to ease her neck. "Are you going to continue?"

"No." There was a whisper of sound as he replaced the katana in its sheath.

Sara let out a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding, moving on legs gone wobbly to the stone bench. "Sometimes I think you will, one of these days," she told him.

"Do you?" Kariya chuckled. "You'd be impossible to replace."

She realized she was smiling. "Does this mean you intend to come to me tonight?"

"Perhaps." He sat alongside her. "We were speaking of the boy."

"Jin," she said, feeling a brief flash of irritation.

"It's difficult?" he asked mildly, picking up the conversation as if the sharpness under her jaw had never been; probably, she reflected, to him it hadn't.

Sara disciplined her thoughts, brushing hair away from her face. "He's good," she said. "His kata are flawless, but — " She yawned. "He _hesitates_. If I attack, he defends but only just enough to keep me from injuring him. I couldn't get him to press an attack, no matter how many holes I left open in my defense."

"Ah. The Mujuu." There was a soft grunt of acknowledgment. "It can be corrected. I have another instructor in mind."

"Oh?"

Kariya nodded. "You're preoccupied with something else," he said, frowning at a slender tree and the fallen leaves at its base. "It will be necessary to do this carefully — if your mind isn't on it, it would take time to undo." He got to his feet and went to the tree, where he reached into the lowest branches.

She took a breath, willing her hands still. He was right; there was no reason to keep it from him. As skilled as the other man was, Kariya would never allow himself to be defeated by someone so — "Yes, of course. I'm sorry. I should have told you as soon as I'd finished with the message. Shoryuu is in Hamamatsu."

"Really." The dry leaves crackled as he gathered them into his palm. "Our old friend. And what's he doing there, that made you keep this to yourself?"

Her lips were dry. "Ryujiro said that Shoryuu was killing the best swordsmen in every town he passed through."

"Mm." He paused a long moment, then brought his hands together and crumpled the leaves into powder. "That is _very_ interesting."

" — he's coming here, isn't he?"

"No," he said. "I'll meet him in Hamamatsu."

* * *

Kawamura was teaching the class, the boys going suddenly quiet without a word from their instructor as the hachidan master came in: g_ood._ Mariya felt the corners of his mouth lift fondly, as they always did when he saw the younger man leading the boys through their drills — it was difficult not to think of him as the same homely boy who'd tripped and fallen over his own shinai in the first class Mariya had ever taught; now he was teaching his own class, and teaching it well.

Mariya shook his head at himself. Juunosuke would laugh to hear how sentimental he was growing.

Kawamura paused, his eyes alert. "Shishou?"

Mariya shook his head again, this time letting the smile broaden into a silent apology for disturbing the class. "Please," he said, settling himself unobtrusively in the corner of the room. "Continue the lesson as if I weren't here." Kawamura looked doubtful, but motioned to the boys, who began again.

The Hojo boy stood slightly apart from his fellows, as he waited his turn. It was odd — the boy bore a _strong_ resemblance to Jin; the hair was lighter, and his skin a little too tanned, but he wore his hair pulled back at the crown exactly as Jin did, his obi tucked and knotted in identical fashion, Mariya realized, his curiosity piqued. The boy (_Yukimaru_, he reminded himself, he'd have to start taking over some of the lessons again if he was having this much trouble remembering a student's name) was making himself over into Jin. There were differences, of course — the boy's eyes were fixed on the lesson without Jin's comprehension, and his fingernails were bitten to the quick, flesh puffed round the jagged edge — but the similarity was so startling that Mariya wondered how he could have missed it.

The first set of sparring boys finished up — the smaller one had a tendency to lunge at his opponent in a way that left his midsection unguarded, Mariya noted absently. He'd have to mention that — and Kawamura called Yukimaru and another to the front of the room. _Ah._ Mariya leaned forward, as his old student gave the word to begin.

The boy wasn't bad, he saw, as the two circled round each other; Yukimaru brought the shinai up, pushing in toward his opponent's ribs, forcing the other boy to block him with a downward stroke. The other boy pushed back, hard, and Yukimaru twisted away, letting the force of the push pivot him on his heel. His opponent lurched forward, the object of the force no longer there, as Yukimaru turned — and the shinai tapped neatly against the other boy's unguarded side: a win.

Mariya watched carefully, as Kawamura congratulated the boy, and spent a moment in explaining to the loser how his own attack had been used against him; Yukimaru stood waiting, listening to the explanation as if there would be something of use to him. A boy who could think — how had he missed this one?

From outside came the ringing of the bell that signaled the end of the hour, and the swell of boys' voices as they exchanged classes. Kawamura smiled and nodded after the boys as they filed out; Yukimaru walked apart from the rest of the group, sneaking a quick glance at Mariya as he made his way past. Mariya kept his face impassive.

Kawamura was lingering at the far end of the practice floor, his eyes studiously assessing the condition of the dojo as he set the rack of shinai to rights. There were no lessons scheduled for the present time, Mariya knew; the younger man was waiting for him to approach, and ask the questions that would be forthcoming. A wave of warm affection washed through him. Kawamura was a _treasure_, the most competent secretary he'd ever come across, able to winkle the last bit of use out of an old gi or convince an irate father that repairing a leaky roof was work every student did; and an excellent teacher, as well.

The master of the Mujuu rose to his feet and crossed the floor worn smooth with generations of feet. Kawamura looked up, his face crinkling into a smile. "Shishou," he said, holding up one of the practice swords. "Would you look at this? It's been so long since I've handled new bamboo that I've forgotten how to take care of it. You'll have to dismiss me for my incompetence and I'll be forced to make my living as the night soil man." The smile broadened into a grin, revealing a set of prominent teeth that gave the nanadan master the look of a good-natured horse.

Mariya took the shinai, noting the way the fibers had thickened slightly. "I think that has more to do with the air here than you," he remarked. "In any event, no one else is willing to keep the books, so . . . "

"Ah. I shall keep my position for now," the younger man said dramatically, then his face smoothed over as he tapped his chin. "Have you noticed that more boys have been turning up sick with sour stomachs?"

"Have they?" Mariya raised an eyebrow.

Kawamura nodded. "I think we can assume that there are new plums in the orchard, though I haven't seen them myself."

The older man chuckled, handing the sword back. "It_ is_ a beautiful day. Shall we go together?" Still smiling, he went out into the courtyard as Kawamura returned the shinai to the rack and followed after.

The throng of boys outside disappeared into classrooms as the second bell rang, though a few stragglers gave the two masters guilty looks as they hurried across the courtyard. Kawamura stayed silent as they walked, looking around as if they were out to inspect the dojo. For what it was worth, Mariya admitted to himself, the Mujuu was well worth looking at, these days; the small pond along the side of the engawa reflected a clear sky, the dojo walls a warm ocher against the green of the moss that lined the neatly raked gravel path.

It looked like itself again, as he remembered it during the time of Master Sekiun, down to the last gleaming scale of the carp in the fish ponds. The sight should have brought him nothing but happiness, he thought; the dojo was thriving, the danger of the Mujuu dying out completely gone.

So why did it leave him with a taste like ashes in his mouth?

Kawamura held out a hand, as they reached the low wall that marked the boundary of the orchard; Mariya opted not to take it — how decrepit did the man think he was? — and instead hitched his hakama up, before carefully stepping over into the soft grass on the other side. He shook the cloth back into place, shame taking the place of spite. At this rate, the only person left who he wasn't actively trying to drive away would be in Mihara. To make amends, he said, "I remember coming here to steal plums when I was a boy. They were never quite as good as I thought they'd be."

Kawamura laughed. "I think every boy comes out at night to steal fruit from the orchard, at least once — except Jin. The only place I ever found him out after lights out was in the dojo proper, practicing."

Mariya smiled, sitting down on the wall.

"Have you heard from him? Or our lord official?" The younger man reached up into the closest tree, plucking fruit from one of its branches. He gave the largest to Mariya, before sitting down alongside him.

Mariya bit into the plum and made a face. The flesh was white and sour, under the thick green skin. "No."

Kawamura coughed. "These are _terrible_," he said, and took another bite. "Nothing at all? I suppose he's busy, but I miss him."

"Hn," Mariya answered. "We're all busy, these days. How are the boys? Have you had a chance to look them over yet?"

"We've had enough new ones." Kawamura grimaced, swallowing the rest before setting the plum stone on the wall alongside his leg. "There are a few who aren't sure whether they should hold a sword by the sharp end or not; I'd tell you they need to be weeded out, but I think they'll go elsewhere on their own. They'll do well enough with the Yagyu, and welcome to them. Other than that, it's what we've had in the past, except that there's more of them — I had to turn away eighteen boys for the first year class, over three times as many as we had last term. We'd never have had enough space for them."

Mariya raised his eyebrows, but left that. "The ones who were here last term?"

"Hmm." Kawamura's face lightened. "I was pleasantly surprised. They seem to have forgotten less over the break — that might just be my imagination, but they don't need as much catching up as they used to. And," he added, "the little Hojo has made extraordinary progress."

"Hojo," Mariya said slowly, concentrating on keeping his tone light. "He's the one with the terrible skin, isn't he?"

"Hojo-kun? If only he _was_." Kawamura sighed. "Skin like a peach — he's too pretty for his own good. As it is, half the last class can't be bothered to pay attention to the lesson because they might miss him breathing, and the other half thinks he needs to be squashed underfoot. A nice thick crop of pimples would be a blessing from the gods, in his case."

"Really. No older brother to scare them off?" Mariya set the half-eaten plum to one side; as the nanadan master gave him a startled glance, he snorted. "The Mujuu has hardly changed _that_ much since I was a boy," he remarked wryly. "I believe even Master Ichiun took a brother in shudo."

Kawamura was silent a moment, then: "Last term, I might have told you yes, but now? " He shrugged, the lines of his downturned mouth a sketch of unhappiness.

"Now?" Mariya prompted.

"Something must've happened. Maybe he had an older brother, and they had a spat?" He shook his head. "I started wondering last term — Hojo-kun still took his meals with the boys from his dormitory, but other than that, the boys left him alone. They looked, of course, and no one spoke to him, so I thought: ah, he has someone. But he didn't act as if he did — I never saw him with anyone, and the way the other boys were around him, it was almost as if they _disapproved_. As if he had taken an older brother he shouldn't have: one of the masters, even.

"Which was a ridiculous thought," Kawamura said, apologetically. "He's a beautiful boy, but none of the masters have an interest in the boys that way; and I knew it wasn't you, shishou."

Mariya grunted, and Kawamura gave him a relieved smile before continuing.

"I assume he found a tutor instead of an older brother," the younger man confided. "His skills have improved tremendously: you saw him beat another boy today, as a matter of fact. He was the one at the very end."

"Ah?"

"Mm. He's started to think about what he's doing, and that — " Kawamura grinned. "Not that you need me to lecture you on what makes a good student good. But the change in him is remarkable."

"I see," said Mariya, shifting in place a little; the stones dug uncomfortably into the back of his thighs. "I was thinking he reminded me of someone." He was unprepared to hear the other man begin to laugh. "What?"

Kawamura subsided, his long face still merry. "To be perfectly honest, shishou, he reminds me a little of you, now," he answered.

Mariya blinked.

"When he first started in my class, he was a chatterer: very difficult to keep him from talking during a lesson. Now — " He flexed his hands in front of him, miming the presence of a wall. "Nothing. If he does say something, it's a question of some sort. What is the correct angle to keep the daisho when it's tucked into an obi? Is there ever a reason in which it would be acceptable to attack and mean to do harm? I was thinking of sending him to you for the last, actually. I'm a better teacher of technique than I am Sen no Rikyu."

"Ah." There was a brief glimpse of movement at the far end of the orchard; gratefully, the older man whistled toward the rustling grass. There was an answering bark, as a sleek, lead-colored shape trotted toward them from underneath the low-hanging branches.

As he'd expected, the interruption served as a distraction. "Hachi!" The younger man reached out, as the young dog came up to them with his tail wagging furiously. "Have you been chasing squirrels from the dojo? Good boy." Hachi responded by bumping his head against Kawamura's leg to encourage a behind-the-ear rub.

Mariya scratched under the dog's chin, the animal's liquid eyes closing in puppy bliss. "It's good to see a dog here again," he remarked.

"Again?" Kawamura straightened up and brushed himself off, giving the dog a mock-stern look. "Does this mean I'm not the first to have thought of using a dog in my lessons? Hachi, I told you someone had to have thought of it before us."

"It was before you were born, probably: I think it was during my last year as a student here. A good dog — he was sent as a gift to Master Sekiun from Kubota, one of the boys had family there."

"What happened to him?"

"He died. Master Sekiun believed it was a bear," said Mariya. "A terrible thing to see."

The cheerful expression slipped from the younger master's face. "Ah," he said. "But — a bear? Here?"

"Mm." Mariya stood, his knees sending up a twinge of protest over the uneven ground. "A most singular bear. Do you think you can spare the inquisitive little Hojo from your next lesson? I would like to see him for myself."

"Of course."

"Would it please his family for him to take up a position with Edo, do you think?"

"Not any more than an extra thousand of rice."

"Good."

* * *

He had a headache already, by the time they reached Kawasaki.

Mugen rolled his head on his neck, hoping to hear a satisfying crunch; there was nothing but silence, and a brief, excruciating twinge that shot up from his shoulders into the back of his head as the muscles refused to loosen.

Of course, the pain in his head was as nothing, compared to the pain in his _ass_.

And she was Still. Talking.

" — we could have stopped at that last place, I saw a man come out with some dango and dango isn't that expensive, we could've probably managed that; places like that don't cost that much. Except they never have enough help. I bet I could've gone in and said, 'Hey, if we work for a couple hours, can we have something to eat?' and they would've been, 'Can you start now?' unless the cook was a pervert or something because you don't want to work in a place like that," she said, without pausing for a breath that _he_ could see. "I mean, you'd be okay, but he'd totally be after me except that I really need a — "

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, hoping to make her disappear, but the wittering went on. Mugen opened his eyes and exhaled.

Crap: it was going to have to be the tanto, then.

Before he could use the tanto on himself or the girl, however, his eye was caught by a short man coming out of one of the roadside stands that were everywhere in this country, carrying a cup of something that looked vaguely alcoholic. Mugen brightened; he could at least trade the girl for a drink. Saved! He veered toward the stand, the girl close behind.

"You like _sweet_ sake?" she asked, dubious.

He skidded to a halt. True, it would be sake, which was the most important thing, but — "How do you know?" he asked, suddenly suspicious.

She pointed up at the characters painted on the edge of the awning that fluttered over the top of the stand.

He cursed. So close, and yet — _aaargh._

"Is it really sweet?" she asked, trotting just behind him as he strode away, the loss of the sake a horrible pain in his heart. "I've never had it, but it sounds like it would be all right because most sweet things taste good; except that if you eat a lot of sweets — "

"Oi," he said abruptly, cutting her off mid-twitter. "You _read_ that."

She stopped talking; surprised, he turned to look at her. She was frowning at him like he'd just announced that rain was wet. "Uh, yeah?"

"First waitress I ever met who could read," he observed, plucking a long grass stem from the side of the road for something to have in his mouth. He'd hit a weakness, judging by the way her mouth had suddenly pinched shut; he laced his hands together behind his head, watching her with new interest.

"Uncle taught me at the teahouse," she said, her little fists clenched at her sides. "Anyway,_ lots_ of people read."

Not him, but Mugen wasn't about to tell her that; he made a noncommittal grunt, the grass stem bouncing as he chewed. She subsided, allowing him a moment of glorious silence as he thought.

As much as she seemed to want him to think otherwise, he'd never met another woman — girl, he amended; she was flat as a plank — that, whether waitress or whore, someone would have bothered teaching something as expensive and ultimately useless to a woman as reading. Numbers were one thing: he'd met more than one madam who would've made an abacus blush for shame over its slowness in comparison. But writing? Something else altogether. The only women he'd ever heard of that were taught to read were —

— shit, she was _samurai_.

The fuck was she doing in a teahouse, he wondered. And looking for another samurai?

The taste of the grass in his mouth was green and sharp, as his jaws worked. If she was samurai — and could women even _be_ samurai, or were they just how you got more samurai? He could add that to the shitload of other things he didn't know about this place — that would make her all kinds of complicated, considering how she'd been waitressing when he came across her. She was no stranger to hard work, either, judging from her rough hands; he glanced over at her, his eyes going to the dirt smudged on the back of her wrist. Could people be made not-samurai?

The likelihood was, even if he did help her find the smelly dude in the next day or two and left her with him, she was a hornets' nest of trouble.

Really, smartest thing would be to ditch her.

He made a face, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Don't care where you learned it," he lied. "Point is, you see another sake stand before I do, tell me."

She gave him an undecipherable look. "You know, if you want something, you could ask."

"I just did."

"No, I mean you could say, 'Please, Fuu, could you tell me if you see one?' because then you wouldn't sound like a jerk."

"Why would I do that?"

" . . . you want to sound like a jerk?"

He made a sour face. "No, call you Fuu."

"Because that's my name!"

Mugen grunted. _This_ demanding, he could think of a name for her on his own.

They walked along in silence for some time, the girl — Fuu, he'd have to remember that — following him closely with her eyes on the road.

"What?" he asked, finally.

"I don't know what your name is."

" . . . Mugen."

* * *

Text of a letter delivered at Mujuu-Shinken Dojo, Kisarazu, the second day of Satsuki, from Gojuu Hall, Mihara:

_My good Enshirou,_

_Here in the south, we are rarely troubled by your snow and ice, but as you say, the winter wind is very cold indeed. I find that it grows colder every year, though I find it hard to believe that it is old age approaching; I was born very nearly the same year as you, as you know, and as I have never seen that you have aged, I have come to the conclusion that you and I are incapable of growing old. Still, the trees of the castle grow straight and seem to be taller from one day to the next, so perhaps time does pass, after all._

_It was with great interest that I read your letter, as I remember our acquaintance very well — it's been a long time, but I suspect even you remember the boys who were in your year at the dojo; and certainly he was one of the more memorable students in my classes under Master Sekiun. I am curious to know what sort of man he has grown into, given the person he was then — one of those boys who is so firmly convinced of his own talent that he can't quite grasp how anyone could think to improve it. (You may have come across one or two of them over the years yourself, unless I have been unusually blessed by the gods above and beyond the twins — in that case, I can only assume I am atoning for several lifetimes all at once.) A bit of a bully, too, if given the chance, though I never had any direct experience of that during my stay at the Mujuu. I think he would have been hesitant to try anything of that sort with me, considering our friendship, but I remember I found the manner in which he treated some of the weaker boys to be distasteful. Still — if he kept those tendencies, I doubt Jin would be a target he would choose. Our boy is enough like you that any attempts of that sort would not be a success. _

_It is intriguing that he has made such an offer._

_You've already asked him why he would choose your students over the Yagyu — and I agree, it seems as if they would be a more practical choice; they can produce two or three swordsmen in the time it takes the Mujuu to polish one — but our gardening friend has never been a fool who acts without reason. Perhaps it would be more helpful to ask what his purpose is, if the Mujuu is more suited to it than any other discipline? But, as I say, it has been a very long time, and perhaps as he has grown older he has come to appreciate the Mujuu for what it is: even a pine will bend when the winds tell it to. _

_Unclear motives aside, I am pleased to be able to tell you that I will be unable to write to you for some time, as I am required to present myself in Edo, where my Lord Asano is resident; I also, of course, intend to visit the dojo of the area, as my students would be sorely disappointed were I not to learn as many new things and leave them with the kinder junior masters as long as possible._

_I have the good fortune to remain_

_Your devoted_ _friend,_

_Juunosuke_


	4. III the barren tree, part one

Disclaimer: I don't own _Samurai Champloo _or any of its affiliated characters, which belong to Manglobe/Shimoigusa Champloos.

A/N: Suggestive; warnings for violence; also messy, leaky death. (You may not want to read this while eating.) Lots of bad language, but . . . er, _Mugen_, so this should not come as a surprise. And hopefully updates will come more quickly, now that the off-Broadway production of _2008: What A Horrible Year!_ has closed up shop. Hurrah! (However, over a year between updates for this story does seem to result in huge chapters that require splitting into smaller chunks for the site to process. _Eep_.)

As always, much love for FarStrider, beta extraordinary, who turns my wittering into readable text. Thanks, Stridey; you really _are_ worth your weight in French toast.

* * *

_**The Hanged Man**_

_III. the barren tree_

_

* * *

  
_

_The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction._

— **William Blake,**_** Proverbs of Hell**_

_**

* * *

  
**_

Once upon a time, back in the days when he was fresh off the smugglers' dhow from Ryukyu, the prospect of entering a Japanese village would have been of great interest to Mugen. Everything was so _tidy_: the road was bordered by lines of trees like soldiers, the farm fields behind them in neat green oblongs. Even the small shrines at the crossroads with the stone figures inside were kept spotless; if he'd had a thought to spare, it would have been why people in this land felt the need to keep their gods boxed away. But today, the difference between this place and Ryukyu (where the gods would have laughed at the idea of their confinement in cramped little houses, then sent the ocean to smash them and set themselves free) was set aside in favor of a more pressing problem: the question of how he could turn his traveling companion into an ex-companion.

(The tiny part of his mind that pointed out killing her to shut her up would undoubtedly only cause her to become a vengeful spirit following him around — and that she'd really _never_ shut up then — was still winning out, but only just.)

_And_ the stubborn itch at the back of his mind that he'd landed himself with the biggest problem of his life by — well, not that she'd saved his life, because he could totally have taken all those guys at the execution grounds, unbelievable how slow and fat they were — agreeing to that stupid coin toss in the first place was not going away. Doing something that would send him back to prison for another tattoo, that was one thing, but this smelled like some kind of clan trouble or something, and that kind of crap?

Not for him, thanks.

She'd be fine. She'd been doing all right when he met her: place like this, bound to be some kinda teahouse around anyway.

The problem was currently walking a couple of paces ahead of him, bitching about how her last bath had been days ago, even _before _the escape, and how she was losing her looks as a result. She looked fine to him (if a little flat-chested for his tastes), but it sounded like she was used to bathing every couple of days or even more; which was way more baths than any person in their right mind could conceivably need. Probably best to keep that last to himself, he decided.

Still, it did sound like she was gonna insist on finding some place where she could have a bath . . . he rubbed his chin. Maybe he could work this to his advantage? _Hmm._

"Yeah," he said, as she paused. "Would be good to find a place that had baths. You know how when you're walking and the dirt is really gritty and it kinda works its way in, like between your toes and — " He scratched his ass for greater emphasis.

Fuu gave him a revolted look over her shoulder.

"What? You were just sayin' you needed a bath."

"Yeah, but that's gross. I don't want to think about your butt!"

Mugen frowned, turning a little to see the offending part; it didn't look much different from any other one he'd seen. What was she complaining about? True, he didn't go around looking at other guys' asses a whole lot, but still — he set that aside, in his growing list of Reasons Why It Would Be A Good Idea To Get Rid Of Her: And Fast, and went back to the plan. "So what're you gonna bitch about, my ass or a bath? 'Cause I know which one you got a better chance at."

She was silent for a moment, then: "You'd stop for that?"

His frown deepened into an outright scowl. Did she need to soundthat shocked he'd do something like that? It was like she didn't trust him — which,_ yeah_, but she couldn't know that already. "Maybe. Ain't like you don't stink," he lied.

"What — you — aaauuugh!" She stopped in her tracks abruptly enough that he nearly ran her over, whirling around to give him a poisonous glare. "Why are you being such a jerk?"

"'S not like I'd stop for one on my own." He folded his arms over his chest. "I'm trying to be nice here, so quit your whining. You want one or not?"

"Yes! Of course I want one." To his surprise, Fuu took a deep breath, her face smoothing out from its grumpy lines as she studied his face. "Thank you."

His frown slipped a little. "Right," he said, feeling awkward.

They set off again, this time with him in the lead, Fuu hurrying after him in an effort to keep up with his longer stride. "Um, today?" she ventured, after they had been walking in silence for longer than he'd thought possible.

"Yeah." He glanced over his shoulder at her, a snide comment dying in his throat when he caught sight of her hopeful expression. "See that?" he asked instead, pointing to the curve of a high bridge where it emerged from a riverside thicket a short way ahead of them. "Kept up too nice for it to go anywhere but a town. Cross that, you can take all the baths you want."

"Oh." She trotted alongside him in silence for the space of a heartbeat, then said, "I've never been this far from Yokohama before."

"Huh." Mugen glanced at her again; when she failed to explain — or, in fact, to say anything at all — he shrugged. It didn't fit with what he knew of her so far, but he supposed it wouldn't matter. A couple hours or so to figure out a way to ditch her, and then he could get back to whatever it was he'd been doing when he'd walked into that teahouse in Yokohama.

They clattered over the bridge, the collection of buildings that stretched out from the far side of the riverbank appearing as promised. The town was bigger and more prosperous than he'd expected; a number of side streets split off from the main road, disappearing into a maze of tile-roofed houses and neatly plastered shops that became larger and more elaborate as they walked further into the town center.

"We don't actually have money for the bathhouse," Fuu remarked suddenly, as they passed one shop with particularly ornate woodwork. "Do we?"

She had a point, he admitted to himself. Fancy generally went with expensive. He felt in the pouch he'd sewn into his clothes at the waist for money he knew wasn't there, more for show than anything. There were a couple of acorns in there that he'd been saving, but — his eye fell on a pimply kid, lurking in a short kimono the color of dried blood, a tanto that looked crappy enough to be homemade poorly hidden in a sleeve. The kid wore his hair in an exaggerated topknot, too flashy to be samurai and too carefully done to be a peasant: which would make the boy the best possible thing for them to come across right now.

Mugen grinned to himself.

"Might have something I can sell," he told the girl. "Wait here."

He sauntered over to the kid. "Hey," Mugen called as he approached the baby yakuza. "You look like the kind of guy who'd know. Where can I find some dice?"

The kid's eyes lit up with greed. "Maybe I do. You got money?"

Mugen leered agreeably and rattled the contents of his pocket together. "Nah. Acorns."

The kid snickered. "_Right_," he said. "There's a game a couple houses down; I'll take you there."

Predictably, the kid failed to wait until they were more than six or seven steps away from the main road before turning to face him, the tanto in his hand. The blade, Mugen noted, was slightly off-center from where it should have joined to the hilt; any kind of use in a real fight and the blade was liable to snap off in the kid's face.

"Gimme your money!"

Mugen couldn't help himself: he laughed. "What're you gonna do, clean my nails with that?" he asked, as the kid waved the knife in a manner that was as threatening as a week-old kitten. A thought occurred to him. "Don't suppose you know where there's a bathhouse around here?"

The kid stopped in his tracks, knife hand held up midflail. "_What_?"

"Bathhouse. You pay money, go in, and have a bath," Mugen said, then paused to root around in his ear with a jagged fingernail, a small tickle having set itself up in the canal. "I think. Anyway, where do I find one?"

The kid looked at his tanto and then back at Mugen again. "Hand over your money?"

"Yeah, covered that already. Any on that road we just left?"

" . . . yes?"

"Where?"

"Not far — closer in to the center of town. Look, I'm tryna rob you, for shit's sake — "

"Yeah." Mugen removed the finger from his ear, flicking some material away that was stuck under his fingernail. _Ah,_ _better_. "Look, it ain't gonna happen. First off, you don't listen. Second, you don't know how to tell if someone's tougher than you are." He lashed out with a foot, the kid's kneecap crunching underneath the metal edge of the geta. The kid yelped and went down, the tanto slipping from his fingers. "Figure that out, I bet you get your ass kicked less. Now, you gimme _your_ money." Mugen waited expectantly; instead, the kid moaned, gripping his knee as he rolled on the ground.

Mugen rolled his eyes. There was no way this kid would ever make it into a real gang — at most, he'd probably just chipped part of the bone. _Whiner_. Sighing, he reached down and closed his fingers around the kid's, closing his hand and squeezing until he heard a sharp _snap!_ "How about now?"

The boy turned a sickly shade and bellowed like a colicky ox.

Mugen waited a moment until the green tinge to the kid's face (and, hopefully, the possibility of any chance that he'd throw up on Mugen's feet) went away, before transferring his grip to a handful of maroon cloth and gave him a shake. There was a gratifying clink; Mugen gave him a wide, toothy grin, turning the boy even paler but which resulted in a handful of monme from inside the short kimono. He gave the kid a last shake, dropping him when it became apparent there was nothing more hidden.

"You ever think maybe you should find something else to do?" he asked, not unkindly. "I got to tell you, you really suck at this."

The only response was a whimper, as the kid curled into a ball.

Mugen frowned as he started back toward the main road: some days, trying to be nice was like pissing in the ocean and expecting it to turn to liquid gold.

Fuu was still waiting where he left her — not that he would have expected she would have gotten bored and wandered off, but sometimes a man needed to cling to his dreams — and gave him a look with some of her old crankiness in it when she saw him approaching. "What took you?"

"Asked about the bathhouse," he said, and jingled the coins at her.

Her face brightened.

As it turned out, the kid had been correct; they had passed two brothels (Mugen made a note to himself of the second, liking the look of a doe-eyed woman sitting in a small courtyard in front) and a fortuneteller's before Fuu tugged at his sleeve. "It's right there!" she chirped in a tone normally reserved for the discussion of food, walking faster toward a white building with a high bamboo fence emerging from its side. "Oh, I am going to soak for a _week_."

"You're gonna be as wrinkled as an old woman." Mugen pulled the red gi free of her grasp, but followed her to the bathhouse door. He winced as he handed over two monme to the hatchet-faced woman sitting at the entrance; it'd be worth it, but. _Two_ monme.

Still, he consoled himself as he watched the coins disappear into the recesses of the woman's clothing, a town this size was bound to have a thriving population of other aspiring yakuza and, therefore, a supply of ready cash for the taking.

Fuu paused at the door, a crease between her eyebrows. "Aren't you having one?"

"Don't smell that bad — maybe after some food."

She rolled her eyes, but the crease disappeared and she looked like she was trying to hide a smile. "One-track mind," she said, adding, "There's a sake stand just across — I wouldn't mind, if you wanted to wait there."

He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest as she went in. She wasn't so bad, but . . . yeah.

Mentally, he began ticking off each item as it would be removed so he'd get the timing right: obi first, then kimono, then juban — he couldn't remember if there was anything after that, based on the times he'd visited brothels since coming off the dhow. His memory supplied a hazy picture of the last girl he'd been with, juban slipping off one coy shoulder, a smooth arm flowing into a creamy shoulder and up into a delicate neck, rounded cheek like a peach —

— before his mind gave the girl _Fuu_'s face.

Mugen choked on his own saliva, as the sound of a small splash came through the bamboo slats just in time to save him from the crazy.

. . . obviously, he needed to get laid in a very serious fashion, if his own mind was screwing with him like this.

"Hey," he called over the fence. "Fuu?"

Very faintly: "What?"

"I was just thinking. That was pretty smart to figure out that thing with the firecrackers," he said. "Back in Yokohama. You're really on the ball, ain't you?" He rolled his head to the side, loosening his shoulders.

A pause, in which he could hear suspicion and pleasure in the compliment at war in her head; suspicion won out, of course. Give her credit, the girl was not completely dumb. "_What_?"

"No, you're really something."

" . . . thanks?"

"I bet, a girl like you, you could do _anything_."

On the other side of the wood fence, something splashed closer. "Um, that's nice of you to say, really, but it's coming out kind of, er. Creepy?"

"What I'm trying to say is — " — he stretched up on his toes one last time — "— see you around, baby," he called over his shoulder as he bounded away, ignoring the strangled shriek of "Mugen!" that came from the women's side of the bathhouse.

_Aaaaaah._ _Sweet freedom. _His problems, he decided as he vaulted over a low wall into a garden and out into another street, were over at last.

* * *

That was the problem with problems, Enshirou Mariya told himself, eyeing the young man seated on the other side of the low table Mariya used as his desk: begin with an error the size of a speck of dust, and end by being a thousand miles off the mark.

Going by the Mujuu's meticulously-kept records, the Hojo boy was an unexceptional student from an unexceptional family, progressing neither more quickly nor more slowly than the others of his age — family in Izu, considered sound but dull by the local han, minor retainers of the main clan who spent more time taking inventories of armor than with the sword. A scrawny boy with a tendency to attach himself to his more glamorous fellows, he read in Kawamura's cramped writing, followed by a heartbreaking addendum: _a natural follower, not a leader. _And then, the recent improvement reduced to so many lines in ink, without explanation.

Mariya had a dim recollection of the father — a man running to fat as he aged, fussing over whether the Mujuu was a _practical_ field of study for his boy, and what sort of _opportunities_ would be available to him once he had finished. The man had possessed a pair of beautiful eyes, dreaming and dark and at odds with a self-indulgent mouth: eyes like those of his son, if memory served.

Kawamura had been in the right of it — a good crop of pimples would have been a blessing from the gods for Hojo Yukimaru.

"I've heard you've been doing very well in your studies," Mariya began. "Kawamura-sensei is particularly struck by your improvement over the last year."

"Thank you, master, but I still make too many mistakes. I hope to do better."

The right response. Mariya felt an odd surge of distaste, but squashed it in the next moment. It was so perfectly something that Jin would have said in the last few years — the boy was harder on himself than anyone (_and why is that_, a sly little voice whispered in the back of his mind, _harder than _anyone_? Really?_), a tendency which only became more marked as the boy grew older — that hearing it from that exquisitely shaped mouth felt like mockery.

— which, of course, it wasn't.

Mariya rubbed the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he needed to sit through a lesson on the sword of no-mind with the smallest boys, if he could not discipline his thoughts to _this_ extent. "I saw one of your lessons," he went on. "I'm inclined to agree with your teacher. Have you given any thought to your future?"

The boy's hand clenched. "A little. My family wants me to come home and marry a girl from Sagami."

"And you? What do you want?"

A pause, then: "This is all I want."

"I see." The inkstone had a chipped corner, the slate rough under his fingertips; he should do something about that, it was unseemly — Mariya caught himself fidgeting, and folded his hands securely in his lap. "If you're willing to work hard, I don't see why you shouldn't be able to become a teacher here." He kept his voice mild. "You have brothers?"

The boy nodded. "Two. But they went to a dojo in Odawara when I was a little boy."

"Mm. You wouldn't rather go back to Izu?"

The boy shook his head and looked demurely down at the top of the table. "There's nothing for me there."

Mariya felt his eyebrows lift, and schooled his expression hastily. A dramatic creature; not that that was any sort of bar. Kawamura did well enough, and this boy was still absurdly young — "Well. I'll write to your family. In any case, you're qualified enough to learn from another master who I believe would be willing to take you as a pupil. But," he said. "These are advanced studies, so you would need to be certain that this is truly the path you want to take."

"Another master?" For the first time, doubt flickered in the beautiful eyes. "I'd have to leave?"

"It would go a long way toward assuring your place with the Mujuu in future."

Fascinated, Mariya watched as Yukimaru shifted in his seat; the tip of a pink tongue peeping out as the boy licked his lips nervously: oh, _that_ hadn't been what the boy had been expecting, no, not at all.

Mariya was reminded of a rangaku mechanism he'd seen years ago, back in the time before he'd come home again to the dojo. A timepiece, the foreigner had called it: a complicated assembly of gears and pins and strange ticking parts — some grit had found its way into the machine despite all their care, and it had shuddered and ground fruitlessly against the obstacle until it locked into motionlessness, unable to find its way past.

"Where is it?" Yukimaru asked at last.

"Not far from Hakone."

"I hadn't — but surely the Mujuu — "

"The Mujuu is not the only school of the sword," Mariya said. "Master Ichiun once told me that, to know the shape of a bird, the great ink painters paint the world around it. Most of the great teachers the Mujuu has produced have studied at other dojo at least once in their lives. And this master has spent some time here as well: he will not be entirely unfamiliar with what you know."

"I — " The boy bent his head. "I will do my best, Mariya-dono. I hope I will be able to return here some day."

"I'm sure. And you won't be the only one from the Mujuu studying with this master," Mariya said slowly, deliberately. "Jin is there. He's a few years ahead of you, I know, but perhaps you know him already?"

This time, there was no mistaking the fierce joy that suffused the boy's face: he gasped, the sound harsh in the quiet of the room, and his hands flew up to cover his mouth. His eyes were bright over the mask of his fingers. "Yes. I do know him. Thank you, Mariya-dono."

"Shall I write your family, then?" Mariya asked, voice dry.

The boy nodded, his hands falling to his lap to twist together into a knot. "Please."

"Good."

"When — "

"Tomorrow, or the next day." Mariya picked up his brush, suddenly feeling very tired. "Do you have a daisho of your own?"

"Yes, Mariya-dono. Kawamura-sensei's been keeping it for me."

"I'll let him know you'll need it. For now, you're excused from lessons, so I suggest you decide what you want to take with you. You may be there for some time." He gave the boy a nod, and slid a piece of paper out of the fresh stack that Kawamura kept on the table for him; Yukimaru, correctly, took that as permission to leave and stood, the tail of glossy chestnut hair rustling against his white haori as he sketched a bow and shot out of the room.

As soon as he heard the sound of the boy's feet hitting the gravel of the courtyard, Mariya set the brush back down with a sigh. Being right, he decided, was a very tiring experience; he should have been pleased that someone believed Jin would make a fine older brother (the little voice pointed out with some indignation that it was about time that _someone_ realized Jin's good qualities), but he could not help wishing that it had been anyone but the little Hojo. Excellent student the boy might have become, but it was worrying that the boy spent so much time on turning himself into the object of his affections — focusing on externals was an easy way to turn the object of one's affections into merely an object, which never ended well for anyone.

Of course, _he_ was one to talk, when it came to shudo. Mariya made a face and rubbed the back of his neck, careful not to disarrange the topknot he had so painstakingly pulled his sparse hair into this morning. Hopefully, Jin would turn out to have the Suwa hair instead as he grew older.

He corrected himself: hopefully, Jin would be able _to_ grow old enough to have the Suwa hair.

A noise from the engawa caught his attention. Mariya looked up, his eyes catching those of Kawamura, who hovered with his foot just inside the room. "Shishou?" the other man asked. "I just have the accounts for the quarter, I can come back later — "

Mariya shook his head. "No, come in. I was sitting here feeling very old. And stupid. That's all."

"Ah." The younger master smiled, walking up to the headmaster's worktable to set his papers down. "I _thought_ I saw Hojo-kun coming out. He has that effect, doesn't he? Even when I was his age, I don't think I was that young."

"He'll grow out of that quickly enough, with Kariya. I need you to write his family. And he'll need his daisho."

"Oh, I see." Kawamura paused, hand halfway to his topknot and the ink brush stuck haphazardly into it. "Yes, shishou, but are — is he really the best choice? In a few months, perhaps, but now? He's still so — "

"Young? There is no suitable other boy to send. Besides," Mariya added wryly. "Jin will make sure no harm comes to him."

The younger man sighed. "I just wish it was possible to make sure no harm comes to Jin."

"Mm." There was no sense in burdening Kawamura with what he thought, not until after he'd spoken to Juunosuke.

_Juunosuke_ —

Ruthlessly, Mariya squashed down the brief warmth that had kindled inside him at the thought of _that_ name; he needed a clear mind. "Yes. But if we can't keep Jin at the dojo, then perhaps we can keep the dojo with him. Hojo-kun aside," he said, changing the subject to something that would occupy Kawamura's thoughts for days. "I also need you to find space for guests in the next month, if it's possible to squeeze them in somewhere."

Kawamura gave him a reproachful look, fishing the ink brush from his hair. "Of course, shishou. Do you know how many we should expect? I'll inform the kitchens."

"Three — and possibly another man; I don't know if they'll be walking or on horseback."

The other man nodded. "So four at most. That shouldn't be a problem."

"Nothing that you can't deal with, I'm sure."

Kawamura scribbled a note on the corner of his ink blotter. "Any special requirements?"

"No. Master Niwa won't expect us to stand on ceremony for him."

"Master Niwa! Oh, that _is_ good news." Kawamura's face brightened. "Will he be staying long?"

"Perhaps. I don't know."

"It'll be good to see him again. I've been meaning to write and ask him the name of that bookseller in Edo: such _cheap_ makurabon. I've been kicking myself I didn't buy more the last time I was there. I think he likes them for — " The sunny smile faltered. "Ah, these other guests, they wouldn't happen to be — "

"Yes," Mariya said, stifling a pang of guilt. "He'll be bringing the boys with him."

Kawamura whimpered.

* * *

From a swordsman's standpoint, the Tokkaido Road was a nightmare.

It was as busy as Jin remembered: schools of merchants like brightly colored carp set against a backdrop of pilgrims in drab and farmers with carts, a hundred conversations rising and falling like the tides, his ears straining to catch everything.

The first time he'd come this way, he'd been on his way to Mihara and Master Niwa, and the sheer number of people — so much noise, how could anyone _think_ — had very nearly overwhelmed him. This time was better; he was more practiced at shutting the world out, now, but still he had seen more people that morning than he suspected had been to Kisarazu in the past ten years.

He took a breath, let it out.

It was easier if he pictured the crowd as a river and himself as a stone within it; Master Niwa had taught him how to manage, almost as soon as he'd stepped into the courtyard from the road. _Let the world pass around you_, he'd said. _Let it wash away from you. And once it is gone, there you will remain. See the world for what it is. _

A warm tide of homesickness crept up from his belly as he thought of the Mihara dojo. If Master Niwa was there, _he_'d be able to tell —

— what? Jin had no idea.

The truth behind what Kariya-dono had said, possibly. From the way his shishou had spoken of him, the man had to be, if not as skilled, nearly his equal at the sword; and from the way the woman looked at him, he had to be very good indeed. Jin knew that look. It was the same way Kawamura-sensei looked at Shishou, probably the same way_ he_ looked at Shishou.

Well, almost.

There was a _something_, in the way Sara looked at Kariya-dono. As limited as his experience with women was — even Jin knew that the thick-necked laundress who came to the Mujuu on a regular basis was probably not what he should expect of women as a whole — it didn't have the feel of the pillow to it; though that was there too, he felt sure. But it was not the whole of what there was. Fear? Longing? Anger? Shishou and Master Niwa both would counsel patience, but it was frustrating not to be able to see it.

Or to see what Kariya-dono was.

He stepped around a new-made ronin (_frayed edge on the hakama, still using expensive oil on his swords,_ his mind automatically supplied; _hands further away from his swords than mine are: minor threat_), setting aside that line of thought to study the back of the man walking a pace ahead of him.

"We aren't going far," the older man said, as if in answer to the question that had been on the tip of Jin's tongue to ask since Sara had brought him his swords that morning. "Hamamatsu. Have you been to the temple there?"

Jin shook his head.

"A shame we won't be here long enough. I've been intending to visit a monk there for some years now, but there never seemed to be enough time. Still, we make time for what's important." Kariya slowed, falling into step beside him. "Your dojo, for instance. A single peony. A fine Kunishige — not that many have the ability to appreciate that, these days." He paused.

Quietly, Jin waited.

The other man chuckled as Jin failed to rise to the bait. "One might even consider the man we're going to see as akin to those things. Though not a Kunishige; a Muramasa, perhaps.

"He is called Shoryuu." Kariya let the name linger on the air for a moment. "Not the name I first met him by, years ago, back when Mariya and I were in Nagasaki. Although — " he said, tipping the kasa back slightly to regard Jin. "Forgive me. I'm sure you've heard the story many times from your shishou; I find I tell the same stories, over and over, as I get older. You're very good to listen to a boring old man like me."

"You were in Nagasaki together?"

"He didn't tell you?" Kariya made a small sound of astonishment. "Hn. Like him, I suppose. He was never one to brag about what he'd done."

"No." Absently, Jin pushed the spectacles back into place, noticing what he was doing only as his fingertip touched the metal frame; it was becoming a habit, a silent invocation of Mariya's presence. He tucked his hands into his sleeves. "What was he doing there?"

The kasa sank back down to cover Kariya's eyes. "Oh, this and that. He should be the one to tell you, I think. We should discuss Shoryuu instead," he answered.

Jin gave a reluctant nod. "Who is he?"

"Mm." The older man looked down at his feet as they walked. "One of the Imagawa, originally. Very promising; he did well at his dojo — not the Mujuu, but not a bad school for all that — and had all the marks of becoming one of Edo's great ornaments. What do you know of them?"

"The Imagawa lost Sumpu," Jin said. "After Tenmokuzan."

"After defeating the Takeda," Kariya agreed silkily. "_Very_ good. Then you know the Imagawa have had a special place in Edo's regard since the time the country has been at peace. Shoryuu was to have been one of the ways in which the government made up for the loss of Sumpu to his clan, when he was chosen to travel to the mainland as part of a group that was negotiating greater trading rights in Ryukyu." His expression turned wry. "Edo had some concerns that sending a party made up completely of the Shimazu might not adequately preserve its interests in the south.

"It would undoubtedly have been a brilliant start to Shoryuu's career, if the ship had not gone down at sea.

"By his account, he was the only survivor, washing up on the mainland far from where they were to land. He was found by a monk, who took him back to his temple and nursed him back to health. Once Shoryuu had regained his strength, though, he did not return here as you might expect, but lived with his monks as an acolyte for the next ten years, learning what they would teach him. He claimed that the monks had a fighting style unlike anything he had ever experienced here, a style so remarkable that no man could withstand it; if a monk struck with his bare hand at the hardest rock, the rock would shatter.

"As if that was not enough, Shoryuu also claimed that, using their techniques, the monks who were most advanced could kill a man without touching him."

Jin was unable to keep a flicker of astonishment from his face. "But that's impossible." He increased his pace to keep up, as Kariya went around an oxcart and a merchant who carried a tanto in his sleeve. "Unless — they used poisons?" he asked, when the merchant was out of earshot.

Kariya shook his head. "No poisons. He called it kacchuu kudaki; they call it by another name on the mainland, but his name is as good as any. It's a technique by which one focuses the . . . chi, he said, but I've always preferred to think of it as focusing one's will," he said, his face tranquil as Jin gave him a skeptical look. "Which is not the whole of it, but I assure you, it can be done."

"Have you seen it?"

"I have done it."

"He taught you?"

"Yes. It is," said Kariya, "very difficult to learn. Impossible, for someone who has not already gained perfect control over their own will." He sighed. "The technique will probably die out here, once he and I are gone; for a while I thought that Sara — but her grasp is imperfect. She allows her mind to become cluttered with thoughts of other things. Really, the only person who can master it is someone who has the ability to clear his mind of everything but the sword."

Jin digested this in silence for a moment, then: "How did he teach you?"

Below the brim of the kasa, the ghost of a smile touched Kariya's mouth.

* * *

He never learned. _Never._

From now on, he was avoiding teahouses of any shape or form, Mugen decided, one foot inside the door as he paused underneath a giant crab attached to the front of the building. One bad teahouse could be chalked up to bad luck, but two in a row — clearly, the gods were trying to teach him something, and the thing about the gods teaching something was that they never taught anything anyone would want to know, like _women will let you see their __breasts sometimes_ _if you tell_ _them you think they look nice_ or _carp tastes like shit unless you cook it with a ginger-plum sauce_; no, it was always stuff that sucked.

He let out a resigned breath as he pushed the awning out of the way, all motion in the teahouse coming to a halt as yakuza eyes fixed on him.

_Fuck._

Still, maybe a little pre-meal exercise would help take the inexplicable bad taste out of his mouth, after leaving the girl at the bathhouse. Which had been the best thing to do. The _smart_ thing.

Really.

A man, ancient enough to have fought with the Taira, tottered forward as Mugen walked up to the first table. "Welcome to this humble place, sir," the old man said over the soft click of chopsticks, as the men resumed their meal with their eyes on the stranger. "You are clearly a man of some importance; let me show you to a table where you can enjoy the sound of the birds outside." He gestured toward the back of the room, his wrist a dry stick in the light filtering through the awning; well away from the other patrons, Mugen noted with no real surprise. There was already some poor townsman already there, quietly watching the steam rise from his tea through his glasses while the yakuza ate like starved dogs.

Ignoring the old man, he stopped in front of the upended kegs that were being used for seats. "Here's good." He wedged himself between the two biggest gang members at the table, the rich smell of the meat making his mouth water as he sat with a thump. The men shifted unwillingly; one gave him a hard look, his eyes narrowing in a manner that was probably meant to have him screaming like a little girl as he ran away.

Mugen snorted, picking a fat scallop off the platter in front of them and popping it into his mouth. Maybe to the people in this town, this gang was an object of fear, but back in Ryukyu they would have laughed themselves silly. Fuu had probably been capable of producing a better glare when she _was_ a little girl, but this bunch — ? Even for yakuza, they looked like they sucked.

The old man drew in a wheezing breath, his face gone gray. "But, sir!" he whispered hoarsely. "These men are _Nagatomi._"

"What? Yakuza, you say?" Mugen swallowed, pretending to think. "Aren't those the guys who can't take a piss without the rest of the gang there to hold their dicks for them?"

The old man made a thin sound, wobbling backwards as the yakuza stopped all pretense of eating their meal. Shame to let it go to waste; Mugen reached for one of the skewers of meat that had looked so intriguing since he'd walked in —

— as one of the yakuza plunged a long knife through the meat and into the tabletop.

"Oi!" Mugen said, annoyed: pissing contests had their place, yeah, but the guy was screwing around with meat. _Meat. _"Stingy fucker. Hell's the matter with you?"

The yakuza — who, Mugen saw with a twinge of envy, had a moustache any man could respect, as thick and black as a crow's tail — smirked at him, his hand resting on top of the hilt.

Mugen rolled his eyes — _stupid, stupid, stupid_ — and did the only thing possible in the circumstances: he pulled one of the wooden skewers out of the meat and stuck it through the man's hand.

The yakuza squealed and staggered back, cradling his wounded hand; the rest of the gang shoved their seats away from them in the heartbeat between intent and action.

Which, Mugen decided as he dropped one of the yakuza by booting a handy keg into his midsection, the man wrapping his arms around his gut as he collapsed, went a long way toward telling him what kind of town this was; unimaginative fighting was _easy_ fighting.

Two left;one of the remaining yakuza was finally making his way around the table, charging toward him with a drawn knife. He waited until the man was a moment away from sticking him with it, before darting to the side; the man slid past him, momentum carrying him forward, leaving his side unprotected — Mugen reached out and snagged the man's obi, spinning him around with the force of his own attack to send him flying into the table next to the man in glasses. The table broke underneath him, loud crack of wood splintering punctuated with a groan.

One left — this one smart enough to hang back, knife (better quality than the kid's, he noted) held low at his side, blade turned out and slightly up. Mugen approved. It was the right angle to stab into the belly and disable an opponent; it wasn't going to help, but still, it was always nice to meet a craftsman.

The yakuza tossed the knife lightly in his grip, fingers loosening and tightening around the hilt to secure their position. Mugen grinned. The man lunged forward and he twisted away, the blade a streak of metal in the air.

Another feint, this one to the other side, and he shifted like water around a rock. It was good tactics, he thought; keep him off balance, drive the fight by making him react rather than act.

Shame the guy was about to meet the business end of that knife, but Mugen figured at least the yakuza could make a good accounting of himself to his ancestors when they met.

Next lunge, this one a little nearer; he ducked, weaving underneath an arm, and came up, his fingers locked around the wrist of the man's knife hand. The man slowed, eyebrows flying upward in surprise, and Mugen yanked the yakuza around, bringing the blade up to the throat, edge ready to shear into soft flesh —

"Stop."

The yakuza froze; Mugen turned his head toward the quiet voice from the corner and found himself looking at the glasses-wearing townsman who gazed back at him, as relaxed as if he were watching a not particularly exciting game of go. "Eh?"

Glasses-man's eyes moved over him, considering. "You're strong," he said, at last. "You've got some balls, too."

"But, boss!" The yakuza with the knife to his throat leaned away from the edge.

Glasses-man snorted. "Don't you get it? You aren't going to beat this man." He turned from his squirming underling, eyes interested as they traveled over Mugen's face. "You said you were hungry. When you finish up there, how about something better than what they've got there? My treat, of course."

"Yeah." Mugen watched, keeping a light pressure on the blade as the man slipped his feet into a pair of plain straw sandals. "What's the best thing they got here?"

The man's eyebrows drew together above the glasses, the corners of his mouth quirking upward. "Crab."

"Then I wouldn't mind some." Mugen stepped back; the yakuza relaxed with a sigh, letting his chin flop onto his chest.


	5. III the barren tree, part two

They paused outside a room with a game of han chou going on inside, the smell of lamp oil and sweat seeping into the hallway. A big man sat just within the entrance, uncurling to his full height as they approached; his eyes flicked over the sword hanging at Mugen's back. As Mugen watched, the man's hand came to rest casually on the hilt of the single sword at his hip. _Hmm._

"You play?" the glasses-man asked.

Mugen shrugged. "When it's not fixed."

The faint smile that had been on the glasses-man's face widened. "I like this guy," he said to the big man. The big man nodded, silently padding after them as they continued down the corridor. They emerged at last in a quiet space, a small table in the center set with food and drink, a platter of crab taking pride of place in the center. Glasses-man sat and poured himself a cup of tea.

Mugen raised his eyebrows. "You got a name?" He dropped to the mat, pulling the sword in its scabbard from over his back; the big man tensed for a moment, relaxing only when Mugen set the sword down.

"Rikiei," glasses-man said. "Ishimatsu, why don't you sit outside? Enjoy the garden. Get some fresh air."

The big man obediently went out, but not far; he sat on the engawa just outside, his back against a post. Mugen felt the corners of his mouth tugging upward. The yakuza enforcer — there was no way the man could be anything but, given his size and Rikiei bothering to address him by name, unlike the tanto fodder in the teahouse — would be clearly visible from any other part of the building, a signal they were there to do some business.

What sort of business, though: _that_ would be the interesting part. "This your place?"

"It is now," Rikiei said.

Mugen raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"I should get rid of the old man and put someone else in charge, but I like it here. It's quiet," the yakuza boss admitted. "And sometimes I see things like that."

He gestured toward the garden behind Ishimatsu and its teacup-sized pond to where a frog sat, barely visible behind the deer scarer; Mugen glanced over as the frog's long tongue darted out and snatched a passing insect, only to find Rikiei watching him as he looked back.

"The world's like that." The other man folded his hands around the cup thoughtfully. "The strong eat the weak. That's how I got here today — one by one, I ate those who were weaker than I was."

Mugen let that pass and picked up a fat crab from the pile in front of him. It was a little heavier than the ones he was used to; maybe the crabs around here ran to more meat? It was crab season, yeah, and maybe this far north — he bit into one, the shell crunching between his jaws. "Chewy," he commented, through a mouthful of shards.

Rikiei watched him for a moment, then chuckled.

"What?" The shell tasted of seawater; he picked a long splinter out of his teeth, the flesh sweet on his tongue.

"You're a strange kind of guy," the other man said. "So. What about it? You want to come in on my little venture?"

Mugen flicked the splinter behind him.

"As a partner, not muscle like Ishimatsu here." Rikiei shifted position, resting his weight on one arm as he leaned back. "You could have anything: more koban than you could carry, enough power that you don't need to worry about the han, whatever you want."

The muscle's eyes shifted from the outside of the building to the boss, a crease appearing in his forehead as he looked at Rikiei. A surprise to him, then, that the yakuza was in the market for new partners: not that Mugen could blame him, much — the chances of a stranger being offered the direction of an established gang were about as good as those of the garden frog putting on a festival yukata and going to the O-bon dancing.

On the other hand, the chances a frog could find himself in the stew pot — he thought those chances were very good, indeed.

"Don't have to worry about the han, huh." Mugen swallowed the mouthful and picked a leg off the platter, cracking it in half with a sound like a finger bone snapping. "What's in it for you?" He slurped the meat out of the shell.

"You don't think I might want some help?"

"I think you're full of shit," Mugen said, and nodded at Ishimatsu. "You want help, you got your dog right there. You don't need me. So what're you getting out of this?"

Rikiei threw back his head and laughed outright.

* * *

They reached Motomachi in the early evening, sun gilding the treetops as they left the Tokkaido Road in favor of a riverside path leading into town. There was far less traffic on the path, as welcome a change to Jin as the soft grass underneath his sandals. "How do we find Shoryuu?" he asked, as they reached the foot of a bridge across the river.

"We won't. He'll find us." Kariya's steps rang out sharply on the wooden planks.

Jin frowned but followed, fine hair prickling along the back of his neck.

It soon became apparent that the older man had been to Motomachi before, and more than once; he led them unerringly down a crooked street to a sake stand that was more tent than building, slipping past the awning and sliding some monme across the counter before Jin's eyes could adjust to the dim light inside.

The counterman looked at them questioningly. Kariya gestured at the seat next to him, the counterman setting another cup in front of Jin as he sat. "Sake?"

"Thank you." Jin took a sip, the sake a thread of fire down his throat and into his stomach where it set up a pleasant burn. "How will he know where we are?"

"He spends more time with the bottle than he used to," Kariya said. "A teahouse would not be as welcoming to him as a place like this." He glanced downward, Jin following his eyes to the ground under their feet where a patch of trampled grass had gone the color of dust.

They sat in silence for a few moments, the counterman busying himself in the back of the stand out of earshot. Jin wondered whether it was _that_ clear they were to be left alone. Not that he blamed the man — there was something about Kariya that discouraged casual contact, even in his anonymous clothing. "What happened once he had taught you?" he asked.

"Very little, actually. I remained the captain of the guard, but the government asked me to find others who might be able to learn the kacchuu kudaki and train them in its use. Even in a time of peace, a resource of that kind is not anything to waste."

"Did he teach anyone else?"

"No. He did try, but killing pupils makes for a certain reluctance in parents to send any more of their sons," the other man added in a dry voice. "In the end, he never stayed in one place long enough to pass the knowledge."

Jin nodded.

"And neither will we, not until later. Finish your sake. We're leaving." Kariya beckoned the counterman closer. "We must go, but another friend of ours will be stopping in — about as tall as the boy here, long nose, talks like a scholar. If you see him, would you tell him we'll be at the place by the bridge tonight? It's a long way from Nagasaki and it's been too long since I've seen him." He let a pile of shining coins fall next to his abandoned cup.

The counterman swept the money up, metal glinting as it disappeared into the recesses of his apron. "It would be my pleasure to reunite old friends, gentlemen. You can count on me."

"I'm sure we can," Kariya said. "But if we should happen to miss him, I expect you'll see me again tomorrow morning."

"We don't open until midday."

Kariya smiled pleasantly. "Oh, I think you might make an exception for us."

The man opened his mouth and closed it again, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

* * *

The moon had replaced the sun, clouds scudding across its luminous surface, by the time the slow footsteps came crunching across the gravel.

It was late. Motomachi had gone to bed some hours ago, the only people still awake watchmen who passed by in pairs with their lanterns. Across the counter, their server dozed, jerking awake periodically to blink at them for a moment, then subside against a post as his eyelids fluttered closed. As he stifled another yawn, Jin envied the man.

He had stopped drinking sake after the pleasant burn had become a deep sleepiness, only shaken off after enough of the last place's tea to leave a lingering taste like compost in his mouth; he'd stopped drinking tea an hour (and two trips to the little copse of trees near the river's edge) after that. A pot of tea mixed with waiting was nearly as bad an idea as waiting combined with weeks of too little sleep.

Which he should have known; he was no stranger to the effects of too much tea after a night spent staring into the dark with his head on the pillow, as the dormitory around him snored and muttered in its dreams.

At his side, Kariya poured a thin stream of sake into his cup and sipped. The wine had as much effect on him, as far as Jin could tell, that pouring it out into the river would have had.

Which seemed to be the general tendency, these days.

Jin suppressed the urge to sigh and stared instead at the patch of ground right outside the entrance, where the patrons had worn the grass down to beaten earth. _Good old ground_, he thought. _So dependable._ _By the way, have you seen any swordsmen with unusual techniques recently? No? That's too bad. _It was ridiculous to be thinking fondly of dirt; but as unexciting as it was, it was still undeniably easy to figure out. Dusty and crackling? Pour water on it. Wet and soupy? Let it dry out. Dirt was simple: no matter what happened, it was always there.

This barren patch of earth very probably _had_ been there forever, or at least long enough that the difference didn't matter. The dust-colored track that had been worn into the grass between the river path and the sake stand looked the same vintage as the hollow in front of the steps that led into the main building at the Mujuu, and as stubbornly resistant to the idea of improvement. It never changed — gravel could be poured into the hollow by the cartload, eradicating any sign it had ever been there, and the next morning, the hollow would be as bare as it ever was.

He had never missed anything so much.

It had been a short time after coming to stay with Kariya, when he realized his anger had made the imperceptible shift into despair, the feeling of dislocation threading into everything like a particularly persistent cold. If he had been more like himself, he would have laughed; everything he had done since the age of five had revolved around the Mujuu and the idea that, if he only worked a little harder, practiced a little longer, cleared his mind a little more thoroughly, been a little better, he would be as good as his shishou wanted.

And now, he was.

It was funny; so funny, in fact, that Jin thought if he did start laughing, he might not be able to stop. The idea that he had spent three-quarters of his life striving to learn everything the dojo had to offer him, only to find that once he had, he was completely unprepared for what he was to do with it. There was a bitter taste to the irony that, whatever he had accomplished until now, what he seemed best at doing was making a fool of himself. Maybe he was meant to do with his knowledge was to be miserable.

It was growing cool, the stand's single lantern doing little against the breeze coming off the river, and Jin tucked his hands into his sleeves against the chill as the barman stirred. Even if he would make a bigger fool of himself than he already was, the habit of keeping his hands as warm and limber as possible was too ingrained to be able to break it. He flexed his fingers and concentrated on the slide of the tendons underneath the skin.

Not that it was likely Kariya would ask him to do anything, given how poorly he did against Sara.

This time, Jin did not bother to be quiet as he let out a frustrated breath; the indulgence, however, was swallowed by the clink of pottery being replaced on the shelf next to the sake as the barman wiped his cups down with a cloth. "Some more?" the man asked, his voice hopeful.

Tranquilly, Kariya regarded the middle distance. "No," he said after a moment had passed.

"Ah. Well." The barman went back to polishing a cup, the cloth squeaking against the lacquer as if he was determined to rub it completely away. It was, Jin admitted to himself, understandable. They had been the stand's only customers since before the sun had dipped behind the rooftops. There had been a ronin having a drink when they arrived, who had looked at Kariya and left without finishing; and the two laughing merchants who had pushed aside the awning over the door had frozen, then excused themselves as having meant to meet a third in that other stand. Jin presumed 'other' meant 'without the scary bearded guy', but you never knew.

As the cloth _eeek_ed round the bowl of the vessel, Kariya looked up —

— and then Jin heard it; the slow sound of gravel ground underfoot.

He let the sleeves fall away from his hands.

The footsteps were light and unhurried, a man stopping for something warm against the cool damp of the night before going on his way, and Jin sat utterly still as they came closer along the path to the stand. There was a sudden tickle along the back of his neck, the impulse to run curling along his spine, and he pushed it away with distaste. He rested his hand on the sword next to him, the silk of the grip comforting.

The barman lifted his head from his task, polishing cloth coming to a stop against the cup.

The footsteps came to the edge of the door flap; a step, and another, and then the heavy cloth was being pulled back —

The stranger paused in the entrance, a tall thin man dressed like an illustration from a story about the vast country to the west, hair streaming down his back from a precise knot at his crown and a cloth bundle under his arm. He had the face of a man who would fight with his nails, as well as sword and fist. "I had heard you were looking for me," he said, and let the flap fall behind him.

"So I was," Kariya replied.

"Mm." The stranger — Shoryuu, Jin assumed — took a step forward. "I'd buy you a drink, but it would seem impossible."

Not moving his head, Jin flicked a sideways look to the space behind the bar; the server was gone, loose canvas at the back of the stand the only clue to how he had disappeared without drawing attention.

"Thank you. But I've had enough."

The thin man gave a slight nod, mouth curling in a half-smile. "In that case, it's a pleasant night for a walk next to the river. Unless you care to stay?"

Kariya shook his head, rising to his feet. "The river will do very well; a good choice. Jin?"

The man chuckled, squinting into the dark, as Jin stood up in the shadow thrown by the lantern. "Another one? For a moment, I'd thought you were here with Sara. Too bad. I would've liked to see her again."

"I'll tell her you were thinking of her." Kariya gestured for Shoryuu to go ahead of him. "Or maybe I won't? Difficult to know."

"Keeping your little ones in the dark. How surprising," the man commented, and slipped past the awning. Kariya followed; uncertain, Jin brought up the rear of their little procession.

They had walked nearly to Motomachi's main bridge, Shoryuu making small talk about an eel stand that had closed down, before the thin man came to a halt beside a stand of willows. He eyed them with an expression that looked like approval and turned to Kariya.

Kariya surveyed the river under the moonlight and nodded. "Your taste always was impeccable."

Shoryuu made a small sound of acknowledgement, his attention shifting to Jin where he stood separate. "Though hardly prudent. Is this your boy? I'm insulted," he said, giving him a cursory glance. "I can still smell the dojo on this one. Has he even — " He stopped, eyebrows knit together as his eyes returned to Jin. "_Enshirou_?"

Over the man's shoulder, Jin caught a glimpse of a smile fleeting over Kariya's face.

" — which is impossible, because that was twenty years ago," Shoryuu finished.

"A cousin," Kariya commented. "He was shorter, but there is a resemblance, I think."

"I see. And you've brought him here. What a story _that_ must be."

"No less than yours, I think. You've made a name for yourself," Kariya said. "Shoryuu."

"Hn." The thin man gave Jin a last appraising look, and turned his attention back to Kariya. "Nothing like you or Enshirou, but then I never did have the opportunities you had handed to you. Tell me, was it your idea or theirs to send him? I've always thought it must have been yours, knowing your sense of humor."

"I am Edo's loyal dog," Kariya replied, resting his fingers on the sword at his hip.

Shoryuu snorted. "A dog perhaps, but not loyal. Certainly not to Edo."

"Oh, Shoryuu: that _you_ would lecture me on loyalty. I notice you've returned to the place of your sickness, though, so perhaps you do know something about crawling on your belly to your master. Come to ask him to take you back? Roll onto your back and show him your throat, hmm?"

Shoryuu's mouth tightened. "My business here has nothing to do with the government."

"The government has nothing to do with your business, that's true. Did you think they wouldn't notice the road of the dead you have behind you? You've gotten sloppy. You killed three men while you were in Nagoya alone."

The thin man gave a sharp noise of amusement. "Three only? It _has_ been slow, certainly, but that slow — I'd no idea. My apologies." He made Jin an abbreviated bow. "I'm afraid I'm hardly worth your bother, little Takeda, but if you like, you're more than welcome to travel with me."

"Off so soon?" Kariya asked. "I'd thought to ask you to teach Jin a few things."

"So sorry," Shoryuu said. "It's past time I went home."

The other man relaxed his grip on the hilt. "Of course. How rude of me — and I quite agree. Time you were where you belong."

His face was smooth, relaxed; the mouth inside its frame of beard and moustache was set in a soft smile, as if they were back in the garden and Sara about to play on her shamisen for them.

But inside the serene mask, Kariya's eyes glittered.

"In fact," he said, "Jin will take you. I insist."

* * *

_Oh_, Jin thought, the reason why Kariya had brought him along suddenly clear. _Oh._

The thin man coughed with laughter. "Oh, I take it back; you weren't looking for me at all. I should have known. What did they say in Nagasaki, you know a workman by his tools?"

Jin missed Kariya's response, his heart hammering loudly in his chest; he felt ridiculous and stupid. He had known that facing someone outside the practice space would be different, but now that the moment when he would use what he knew (and for one horrifying moment, the possibility that he would _forget everything_ yawed before him, a vast and terrible gorge with its lip crumbling underneath him) was here, the only thing that registered was how much he was afraid.

He forced himself to stand straight, feet planted solidly on the ground. He could do this.

Shoryuu looked at him. "So, little Takeda?"

Slowly, Jin nodded.

He wrapped his fingers around the hilt and _drew_ —

— and in that moment, the knot in his stomach that had been there since leaving Kisarazu, every last breath of worry and doubt, blew away into nothing like so much dandelion fluff before a gale.

There was nothing: no homesickness, no sense of betraying the purity of the Mujuu, no thought of disappointment or failure — nothing mattered but the _rightness_ of the sword in his hand.

The man chuckled and pulled a sword from the bundle under his arm; out of the corner of his eye, Jin saw the cloth flutter away, falling to the side of the road. There was the space of a breath as the man assumed a fighting stance, his weight resting on his back foot as he held his weapon — which looked ancient, the blade a wide arc of steel that tapered to a point, how did he think he could fight with what had to be some sort of _ceremonial_ sword — high.

Jin frowned.

An odd style, but . . . Shoryuu's eyes were steady, no sign of fear in their depths.

The man drew a hissing breath, and _moved_ —

— Jin twisted to the side, the sword passing close enough to his cheek that he felt the current of air disturbed by its passage against his skin.

Shoryuu made a sound deep in his throat, a short huff of affirmation, as if finding something he had set aside some time ago. He drew the sword back to his original position, holding it high, and stepped slowly to the side, circling around with movements that would not have been out of place in a temple. "Would you like to begin, or should I continue to warm up?" he asked.

The fury seething in Jin's blood lessened to a low boil, enough to permit thought; still too much for the comfort of the Mujuu, but sufficient that he would not kill himself right away by doing something stupid

He brought the katana up, and blocked: Shoryuu's strike rang out, metal on metal, and the man was there in his face pushing against him.

"Why are you fighting me?" Shoryuu's voice was calm. "It can't be for the bounty, you've never been interested in that."

The cold night air stung, as Jin caught his breath. _What — _

"Perhaps you simply need killing," Kariya replied, from somewhere to the right of Jin's shoulder.

The thin man smiled. "How noble of you. Not true, but it has a good sound." His attention shifted back to Jin. "Should I ask which one of us he means? I don't suppose he'd say, of course." He leaned harder on the sword, Jin's shoulders beginning to burn with the strain of holding him up; Shoryuu was more solid than he looked —

— which, of course, would have been what his shishou would have told him to use, that familiar voice dry in his ears.

Jin pushed _back_, taking care to let the edge of the katana dip just low enough —

— as the other man's sword slid off, Shoryuu leaping away as the katana whistled through the space where he had been. Slowly, his smile broadened, as Jin drew back.

"Oh, brightboy," Shoryuu whispered. "You're _thinking_, aren't you? You're paying attention. How he must love that." He raised the sword high once more, and struck —

— as Jin dodged, his hakama fluttering as he leapt onto the bridge, the wooden railing at the edge of the path splintering into pieces behind him.

_The monks' technique_, the tiny part of him separate from the fighting noted dispassionately. _It looked like it came from the sword: it _acts_like__ a sword so it's possible that if I treat it as — _

He ducked, then, narrowly avoiding the sword itself as it passed through the air above his head.

"No time for the dojo, little Takeda," the thin man rasped. "If you won't use the sword, what good are you?"

Jin ignored him, staying in the crouch for a second breath, longer than he should have, waiting waiting _waiting_ —

_(ah)_

And there it was, the monks' technique, as Shoryuu gave in to the temptation of a stationary target as Jin moved, a stone that had been under his sandal shattering into a thousand fragments; there was a searing burn over the side of his ankle and he knew one of the pieces had torn the skin there, but there was no time, no time before the man could raise his sword again, and then —

The space of a heartbeat, and then —

(_open he's open he doesn't see it_)

— and then the moment _stretched_, Shoryuu's breath as clear and slow as the tide outside Kisarazu; Jin could smell pickled vegetables and a memory of the dojo kitchens in autumn washed over him —

(_have to_ _now or he'll_)

— and Jin ran him through, the katana sliding in underneath the man's breastbone.

The man gasped, his eyes widening. There was a warmth coating Jin's hands as Shoryuu's momentum pushed the blade deeper; it felt almost pleasant, a contrast to the chill of the evening, before the significance of the warmth registered and Jin's stomach did a lazy roll within him.

(_oh_)

The thick reek of blood rose up to meet him, the sourness of a voided bladder twining round it. The part of his mind that would not be silent catalogued a note of alcohol in Shoryuu's urine; _the body shuts down its processes before death occurs_, Niwa-sensei lectured him, a thousand years away. _Food, drink, breath _—_ it no longer needs what we gave it in life._

Useful advice: it did not, however help with the immediate problem, which was the fact that he was in danger of throwing up from the smell, and — was that blood, seeping over his feet?

Jin swallowed hard, trying not to gag.

The voice droned on, a backdrop to the moment turned suddenly sharp as the grain of the bridge railing carved itself into memory.

The other man shifted then, a gentle slouch that turned into a slump forward. He staggered, sliding down along the katana, coming to a stop close enough for the delicate tracery of red veins overlaying the whites of the man's eyes to come into sharp focus before he sagged. Jin automatically braced under the additional weight.

There was a peculiar sound: a wet sort of noise that Jin could not immediately identify, a moment passing before he realized the man was chuckling. "You haven't had this one long enough, Kariya," Shoryuu rasped. "You would've dropped me."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jin saw Kariya take a step forward. "Leave him. He's already dead."

A crooked smile formed on Shoryuu's face, the skin around the lips taking on an undertone of violets. "I've been dead for years. Do you think a few moments will make a difference?" he called, then grasped at Jin's collar. "Put me on the grass, boy."

Jin obeyed, dragging him as gently as he could with the sword sticking out of the man's torso; Shoryuu grunted as he came to settle on the ground, his fingers still clutched around the cloth as Jin bent down.

"Good," the dying man told him, breath beginning to hitch. "Should — listen. _Listen._ Lies."

"Listen to what?" Jin asked. "Who lies?"

There was a horrid sucking noise as the man fought for another breath, a rattling gurgle that left the hair on the back of Jin's neck rising; then the fingers around his collar slid free, Shoryuu's arms relaxing as the gurgle trailed off into a silence that was more horrible still.

Jin rocked back on his heels, unable to look away.

* * *

Mugen slowed, hearing a loud thump from the direction of the roof; he looked up, half-expecting to see a dead branch cascading off the tiles, but saw nothing.

He shook his head — this crazy country was finally getting to him — and managed to go another two steps before a roof tile shattered on the ground ahead. A muffled exclamation followed on its heels, drawing him up short.

He'd heard that voice before, but — what was she doing here?

Amused, he watched as a pair of familiar feet dangled off the edge of the roof; one of those ridiculously impractical zori fell off, dust pluming around it as it thumped onto the packed dirt of the brothel courtyard. "Oi," he called softly. "I can see straight up your kimono from here."

There was a squawk as the feet disappeared, to be replaced by her head poking out over the eave. She looked — well, maybe pissed off was understating it a little, he decided. Severely pissed off? No, that wasn't quite it either — "_You_," she hissed.

"Me," he agreed, shoving his hands into his pockets. Homicidal: _that_ was the word he was looking for. "D'you think you're doing up there? Break your neck, that way."

"I," she said through gritted teeth, "am _escaping_. Now shut up and get out of the way if you're not going to help."

"How do you think you're gonna get down from there? That's at least three times my height."

"Is _not_."

"Is too, you dumb broad."

"Is not! _And_ I'm not talking to you, you jerk."

"Uh-huh." Absently, he ran his tongue over a piece of something stuck between his incisors. He could really go for some more of those crunchy crab thingies — "How's that working out? 'Cause I can still hear you."

Her face screwed into an angry knot. "Just go get lost, for — I'm getting out of here, see if I don't."

Mugen eyed the way the roofline brushed against the treetops. "Not from there, you can't."

Her face reddened to the point where he halfway expected her head to begin whistling like a teakettle. "_Will you go away?_"

"Your funeral." He shook his head and went inside, the building humming with giggling whores and distracted yakuza. He made his way past a maroon knot of men lounging around Ishimatsu, the big enforcer's eyes following him as he walked past; he hadn't done himself any favors there either, he thought.

Mugen made a face. Eh, popularity was overrated anyway.

He found Rikiei sitting in a back room, smoking a pipe. "Ah, partner. I was hoping to see you."

"Yeah," Mugen said, and made himself comfortable as he leaned against the wall. "You know you got a woman hanging off the roof out there?"

The Nagatomi boss blinked, taking the pipe from his mouth. "_What_?"

"Small. Kinda pink." Mugen considered. "Noisy."

"Oh, for — Ishimatsu!"

While Rikiei waited, Mugen took the opportunity to indulge in a long and luxurious scratching of his armpit before cracking his knuckles. At some point, he really was going to have to find a bathhouse for his own use, he reflected. Spending days on the road meant a certain amount of grubbiness, which was fine; but eventually sweat and salt from seawater had to be scrubbed out of clothes or risk chafing in places he preferred to keep in good working order, thank you very much.

And it _felt_ good. He could think of at least one person who probably wouldn't believe him, but he wouldn't turn his nose up at a hot soak if it was on offer. Which Rikiei could undoubtedly arrange, if he took the man's offer; though it would be a good idea to keep an eye open as he soaked, in case anyone would want to lodge their pink tanto in his ribs for safekeeping.

_Hn. _

He liked women, especially the ones who were the right kind; not the clinging kind, who got what she wanted through manipulating some poor bastard into doing it for her, but the ones who did as they pleased and were strong enough to go about it without needing to be shored up. Trouble was, the ones who did as they pleased tended to _be_ ones who did as they pleased, which usually made for a short career once someone bigger noticed they might have something worth taking.

Add to that a place that leaned hard on its women to sit down and shut up — he shook his head. Even if it turned his stomach, it was hard to blame them for using someone too dumb to know he was being used.

A shadow passed in front of the light coming in to the side chamber from the main room, and his eyes flicked from Rikiei to the entrance, automatically looking for the sword.

Ishimatsu was at the door, his attention fixing on Mugen even as he turned his face attentively to the yakuza boss.

Mugen grinned, drawing up his lip to let the other man get a good look at his canines.

"There's a woman — one of ours?" Rikiei asked, turning his head to face the door as Mugen nodded. " — trying to get down from the roof. Go get the idiot before she kills herself."

Ishimatsu grunted and took a step away from the door, but paused as Mugen spoke.

"Might wanna be careful. If that's the one I'm thinking of, she got bounced from her last place," Mugen said. "Nasty lice or some kinda crud or something." He scratched himself in a leisurely manner.

Rikiei took off his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose with disgust. "Ecch. Tell Komatsu to have the girl checked over before she goes on offer."

The big man nodded and moved off down the corridor, as the yakuza replaced his glasses.

"Nice of you to let him off the leash like that," Mugen commented. "That what you got in mind for me?"

The man pushed the frames into place on his nose with a fingertip. "No. He's good enough at what he does, which is what I tell him; what I want is a partner."

"To do what? Doesn't look like you need one."

"For this? No. I don't need one, if all I want to do is stay in this pissant little town."

"Which you don't?"

"Not much left here: tea. Getting laid. Eating crab." Rikiei drew on the pipe, letting smoke trickle from his nose. "All right for a couple of months, but then — " He shrugged.

It made a certain sense; an ambitious yakuza boss would have to worry about his back almost as much as he would about pushing other gangs out. But there was still something that sat weirdly with him. Why make an offer of partnership to someone he'd met that day, instead of a place as an enforcer?

"Well? How about it?" Rikiei asked. "You're not saying yes."

Mugen scratched himself thoughtfully. "Ain't saying no right now, either."

"When do you think — " The man broke off speaking at the sound of a struggle outside; he turned to watch as the noise came closer.

Interestingly, the glasses provided a clear reflection of what was going on in the hallway, without any need to move away from the screen; Mugen could see the yakuza whose throat he'd almost cut (and how had that happened earlier in the day? It felt like it had been _weeks_ ago) in the main room with a skinny whore in his lap, both of them looking up as — _oh_.

_Heh_.

Mugen tried, unsuccessfully, to stop a grin from forming again as Ishimatsu proceeded down the hallway with a hissing, clawing pink burden held at arm's length; the other man looked as if he'd eaten a sour apple, his face twisted into a grimace. Fuu wasn't making it easy for him, either — Mugen could hear her bitching over the noise of the outer room even after they'd disappeared into the depths of the building.

Give the girl credit, she wasn't scared of _anything_, he decided. Shame she'd ended up here.

He shoved the tiny chip of — _not_ guilt, he assured himself; guilt was for losers, a complete waste of time, and it wasn't like he had anything to feel guilty about, she'd known what he was when she'd tried busting him out in Edo — down, and turned his attention back to Rikiei, who he realized had been talking to him since he'd stepped out into the hall.

The Nagatomi boss looked at him enquiringly. "What do you think?"

Mugen made a noncommittal noise. "Sweet deal you got for yourself here."

Rikiei laughed. "Give people what they want, and they won't care what you take," he said. "So what about it? Come on: be smart. You'd be a fool not to take the offer."

— yeah, he would, wouldn't he.

Coolly, Mugen used his fingernail to fish out that stubborn fleck of shell still stuck in his teeth. "Could be you have something I want," he commented.

* * *

From their seats inside the inn, Jin could smell the wisteria that had been planted next to the kitchen. Outside, the sun was rising in a wash of rose and copper; it was going to be a glorious day.

He picked up a fragment of pickled peach from the dish in front of him. The peach was soft and yielding between the sticks, the pink-tinged flesh — he set the peach down, bile rising in the back of his throat.

Across from him, Kariya ate voraciously, helping himself to seconds as the innkeeper hurried between the serving hatch and their table. "You're not eating? It's very good." He picked up a piece of fish and popped it whole into his mouth, the muscles of his jaw working as he chewed.

"I'm sorry. I'm not hungry."

"Ah." Kariya swallowed. "I find an evening's work gives me an appetite. Drink some tea, at least; I'd prefer to not have to carry you back." He turned his head toward the kitchen; the man had been watching, and was at their side before Kariya finished moving.

"More fish, sir?" the innkeeper asked. "Or perhaps the young man would prefer some dumplings? A little soup?"

"Tea."

"Yes, of course. I'll bring it straightaway."

As the man turned to go, Kariya stopped him. "You look familiar. Do you come from Edo?"

The innkeeper held the empty tray against him like a shield. "No, sir. I've never been further north than here."

"I know your face. You have — " — Kariya frowned — " — a brother. I remember a brother."

"No, no brother. Only my wife and myself, sir. Just us, no one else."

Kariya's face cleared. "Nagasaki: that's where it was."

There was no answer; the knuckles on the hands gripping the tray were as white and bloodless as snow.

"You _did_ have a brother."

The man looked sick. "Yes," he said softly. "I had a brother."

"Hn. You came here; interesting," Kariya replied. "I have heard this is a good place for families. You have no children?"

"No children."

"You should. Plant a garden."

Sweat had gathered along the man's hairline; he swayed faintly where he stood and, watching, Jin felt a wave of pity for him. "The tea, please?" he said, before the man collapsed.

"Yes. Right away." The man scuttled off, vanishing into the kitchen. Jin doubted they would see the tea for some time; or, for that matter, the bill.

Kariya smiled at the fish. "I'll have to remember to come back here."

* * *

There was a crash at the end of the hallway; Mugen broke into a trot, the loud yelp breaking off abruptly as he reached the sliding door.

He shoved it open, the wood frame making a loud crack as it met the edge of the screen that divided the room from the hallway. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim lantern light of the room; there was a brief impression of an open window, a rumpled futon — he pushed past the door sticking crookedly in its track.

Fuu swung round, breathing hard and glaring at him for all she was worth, a drift of perfume rising up to him as the fancy kimono she was wearing settled back into place. She looked all right: no visible injuries that he could see, and nothing to suggest he'd gotten there too late to — well, not to rescue her, because he wasn't in the rescuing business — though her face wore more paint than he would have thought strictly necessary and that kimono was open low enough for him to see the delicate tracery of her collarbone.

The floor crunched sharply underfoot as he took a step forward; he frowned, looking down to see a spray of pottery shards crushed beneath his geta, then glanced back up at her.

"D'ja break something?" he asked needlessly.

Her eyes went from his to the corner. He turned his head to see a pudgy man crouched there holding his head in his hands, blood seeping through his thick fingers.

Mugen turned back, raising his eyebrows.

She shrugged.

He shook his head. _Chicks._ "Least the building's not on fire," he muttered.

"What?"

"Nothin'. You all right?"

Her mouth thinned. "No," she said. "No, I'm not."

He swung around to glare at the man, who raised his bloodied head to reveal a moon face behind a pair of spectacles, made even more unprepossessing by a tip-tilted nose and a pair of protruding teeth, giving him the look of a chunky rat. Which, Mugen noted to himself, might be a good reason behind the man's presence in a brothel. "Did he — "

"Him?" she scoffed. "Please. He's just a pervert with a . . . _thing_. It's not like he's someone who would, oh, abandon a person who saved their life, or who'd refuse to help that person when she was trying to escape."

The pervert looked offended. "Hey!" he protested, nose twitching. "I'll have you know I was just named the second bookkeeper at the brewery. And what do you know? You're a whore! My mother says any woman would be lucky to have me."

Her face like a thundercloud, Fuu drew in a deep breath. "Look, your mother can sti— "

Mugen pressed a fingertip to the spot over the bridge of his nose that was beginning to throb. Not half an hour, and already she had him missing his peaceful cell back in Yokohama.

_Right._

"Oi! You. Quiet," he said to the rat man, who nodded frantically, glasses bobbing on the end of his nose. He turned back to the girl. "And _you_: get your shit, we're getting out of here."

She planted her fists on her hips. "What do you think you're doing?"

"What — " Mugen stared at her. "What does it _look_ like I'm doing? I'm busting you out of here, that's what I'm doing."

"I can't believe you! You couldn't help me before, and now, what, you just changed your mind?"

"_I _couldn't — ? Let me think: hmm, you're pissed off because I didn't help you kill yourself by helping you fall off a tall building? Yeah, I can see how _that_ would have helped. Are you a goddamn idiot, woman?"

"And how is your idea any better?" She flung her arm out to point at the hallway. "There's like a hundred people out there. People with sharp, pointy things, in case you hadn't noticed. How are we supposed to get through them, just ask?"

"They're not organized enough to be a problem, and I — "

The rat man took this opportunity to begin edging toward the door. "You two seem busy. I'll just come back later?"

In unison, they turned toward him. "_Shut up!_"

The man retreated to his corner, making himself small near the broken pieces of ceramic.

Fuu scowled after him a last time, then twisted to face Mugen. "You don't think a hundred people is a problem?"

He rolled his eyes. "For one thing, there's maybe — " — he raised a hand, counting on his fingers as he thought — " — maybe eight. _Maybe_. That's not a problem for me. You get behind me and stick close, and we'll get out of here."

She glanced toward the hallway, then back to him.

"Come on," he said, holding out his hand. "I promise."

For a long moment, he was convinced she was going to let him stand there like an idiot; but then, she reached up and twined soft fingers through his.

He grinned down at her. "Let's go."

Not waiting for a response, Mugen darted through the door, pulling Fuu along in his wake toward the voices growing louder in the corridor.

They were nearly to the end before they saw the first group of yakuza, who gaped at them in surprise; Mugen skidded to a stop, reaching over his back with his free hand to pull out the sword.

Behind his shoulder, Fuu let out a small sound of temper. "That's _way_ more than eight!"

He rolled his eyes.

* * *

"My goodness."

The amusement in Kariya's voice broke through his jumbled thoughts; he looked over at the other man and saw his attention focused on a pair of slight figures in the courtyard, sunlight bright on their hair. The smaller was instantly recognizable as Sara, the plum of her kimono vivid against the tub of yellow sunflowers, but the other —

Jin's stomach gave an abrupt lurch. _Oh no, no, no — _

"I take it the second of the Mujuu's promising students has arrived. What an honorable man your shishou is," Kariya said, the ghost of a chuckle in his tone as the two walked forward to meet them. "Ah, Sara, you have brought us a guest."

"A new member of the family." Sara smiled at Yukimaru. "Hojo-kun has come to study with us as well."

"Ah." Kariya turned to the boy, as nausea curled through Jin's midsection. "A great pleasure. I look forward to having you here, Hojo-kun; I have been impressed with Master Mariya's work so far," he said. "I hope I can expect the quality of work that I have already seen from Takeda-kun."

Yukimaru ducked his head. "I hope that too, someday soon, Kariya-dono."

Sara coughed delicately. "Jin? Hojo-kun has the room next to yours, so if I may impose — I'm afraid that a pest has been at one of the plants." Kariya glanced at her once, before striding off toward the garden as she followed, and Jin was left with Yukimaru.

"Jin!" The boy was grinning, a broad smile that lit his face. "You're back — I'm so glad to see you. When you left the Mujuu, there were so many rumors," he said, the words coming out in a tumble. "Kawamura-sensei said you'd gone to study at another dojo, but Enjoji said you'd been sent away: I knew Enjoji was jealous, but he was telling _everyone_ and I almost forgot, I beat him right before Master Mariya said I was to come here and it worked exactly like you said, I made him attack and let him defeat himself."

The pleasure at seeing him was ebbing from Yukimaru's eyes, uncertainty taking its place. "Jin?" he repeated.


End file.
